by Kathy Shuker
She eased between two barriers and walked up the path, calling Sidney’s name. There was no answering sound. Reaching the house she turned left. There was a path of a sort here too, but barely visible. She glanced in at a grubby window - there was no furniture and no sign of life.
Around the back she came on a large square garden with the suggestions of ancient flower beds and a rusting rotary airer rammed in the middle of what had once been the lawn. And beyond the lawn was a shed, overhung by trees, its roof covered in mould and lichen, its one window intact but cloudy with dirt. Again she called Sidney’s name. This time, she was sure she heard something. She walked closer and called again. Definitely, yes, a little squeaky answer. Her throat choked up and tears clouded her eyes.
‘It’s OK, Sidney, I’ve found you.’
There was a padlock looped through the hook and bar on the door but thankfully it hadn’t been pushed in and locked. She was clumsy in her haste to undo it but finally pulled the door back.
Rusting garden tools were propped up against the walls and shelves held dirty plastic and terracotta pots. An ancient lawnmower stood to one side and the floor was strewn with lengths of cable, more tools, half-filled plastic compost bags and filthy pieces of cloth and canvas. There were more plant pots on the floor too and a pile of plastic and ceramic plant pot saucers had toppled over, many of them broken.
In among the dirt and mess stood Sidney, shaking, eyes wide and suspicious, watching her. He didn’t move. Jo bent down and slowly put her hand towards him so he could smell her. He was filthy and painfully thin. He couldn’t have had anything to eat since she had last seen him. One of the plastic saucers lay on the floor nearby. Maybe someone had put water in it for him, maybe not, but it was dry now. It looked like he had been sick. He emitted another pitiful squeak and took an unsteady step towards her. Jo gently picked him up and held him close, murmuring nonsense to him. She didn’t care that he smelt or that he was dirty. She was so relieved to have found him, the tears ran down her cheeks.
‘What bastard did this to you, Sidney, hm?’ she murmured. ‘Who was it, hey? It’s OK. You’re all right now.’
She took him home, cradling him in her arms. She’d got the message: she had been asking too many questions and someone had sent her a warning. And they had used a defenceless animal to do it. She was incensed.
*
Matthew took Harry to Totnes station on the Saturday morning and waited to see his train leave. The lad had money in his pocket - not as much as he would have liked but enough - and a week’s worth, hopefully, of clean clothes in his huge sports bag. He also had his tablet computer and a couple of car magazines. The boy had refused to take a suitcase because it looked ‘so retro’. It felt odd to see him go. Matthew had half expected to feel a sense of release, of freedom - Harry would be Karen’s responsibility for a little while - but he didn’t. There was just a different kind of concern.
He drove home and worked at Millie’s until the lunch rush abated then spent the rest of the afternoon at the house, cleaning and tidying. At five o’clock he went upstairs again, making sure he hadn’t missed anything. He hadn’t bothered much with Harry’s room - just a cursory tidy up since it was a lost cause anyway and Jo wouldn’t see it - but the bathroom had to be right. Earlier he had found a damp towel rammed on the back of the door and a single dirty sock of Harry’s behind the cupboard in the corner and never retrieved. It had been there an embarrassingly long time too: it was covered in dust. And then there was his own mess. He thought he kept the bathroom reasonably clean but, looking at it as he thought Jo might, he had noticed the scale on the washbasin, the spattering of toothpaste on the mirror over the top and the sloppiness of the cheap old soap. Sophie would have been appalled.
Now, however, the bathroom was spotless. One last look at his bedroom. The bed was carefully made, his clothes put away. Though there was no reason for Jo to see his bedroom either. It was too soon for that. What was he thinking? Of course it was too soon. He wasn’t ready for that kind of relationship and God only knew what Jo would think.
He went back down to the kitchen and began preparing the meal. He was making a roasted vegetable and cheese frittata accompanied by salad and French bread. There had been some chef on the TV the other week demonstrating the recipe and it looked tasty but not too difficult. Matthew laid the table and tried to make it look nice. Sophie had always been good at that.
‘Don’t hate me for doing this,’ he muttered to her.
It was what he used to say to her when he was about to do something he knew she disliked. ‘Maybe not hate you,’ she would say and smile. She had a cheeky smile sometimes, mischievous, and he had loved it.
But this time there was no answering reply in his head. Busy trying to figure out what to do next, he didn’t notice.
*
Jo stood in front of the mirror, turning this way and that. The dress clung to her body, emphasising every curve. She pulled a face at her reflection. She had been invited for a casual home-cooked meal by someone she barely knew. It sent out the wrong signals; she wasn’t on a mission of seduction. She wanted to keep it low key, wanted to relax and talk and keep it simple. Except that it wasn’t simple, not when she was hiding the fact that she knew Harry.
She peeled the dress off and threw it on the bed in disgust. The only reason she had this dress and others like it was because Richard had liked her in figure-hugging clothes. What was it Eleanor had said that night on the phone about not trying to be something you’re not just to please someone else? It was about time she did some shopping.
Twenty minutes later, wearing a pair of flared slinky trousers and a loose sleeveless top, a cotton cardigan thrown around her shoulders, she made her way down to the village and stopped at the store to buy a bottle of wine. She stared at the unimpressive choice. OK so red or white?
‘Finally,’ said a voice behind her.
Jo turned to find Imogen looking at her reprovingly, Mari one step back.
‘We were coming to see you and saw you heading for the footpath,’ said Mari. ‘We’ve been trying to catch up.’
‘You walk too fast,’ Imogen accused her.
‘Why did you want to see me?’
‘We’re going out tomorrow for the day,’ said Imogen. ‘There’s an open air performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in the grounds of Spellerton House, in Dorset…’
‘And we thought you might like to come,’ interrupted Mari. ‘You spend so much time alone in that big house. Join us, why don’t you? Frank and Louisa are coming. Vincent’s going somewhere else but that means there’ll be room in Imogen’s car for a little one like you.’
‘It’s a bit of a drive,’ said Imogen, ‘but we’re going make a trip out of it. It starts at two and tickets are on a first come, first served basis so we’ll have to get there early. If we leave at nine we’ll have time to stop for lunch.’
‘Do say you’ll come,’ said Mari eagerly.
‘I’d love to but I can’t, I’m sorry. I’ll be going to see Eleanor.’
‘Oh dear, yes,’ said Mari. ‘Lawrence told us she’d moved to some centre. Is it a good place?’
‘Yes. Very. And very private.’
‘Good. But we’re sorry you can’t come.’
Imogen was looking at Jo speculatively.
‘Buying wine?’ she said meaningfully, eyebrows raised. ‘Dressed up? You look as if you’re going somewhere special.’
‘Oh, wonderful,’ said Mari. ‘Someone did say that they’d seen you the other night with a man. I’m so glad.’
‘Yes. Do tell, Jo.’ Imogen’s gaze was fixed on her, eyebrows raised. ‘Who’s the lucky guy?’
‘I’m seeing a friend,’ Jo said quickly. ‘That’s all.’
She grabbed a bottle of red wine, any wine, and went to the till, leaving the two women studying the bottles and arguing about what they should buy for themselves. But when she left the shop a few minutes later, Imogen was
watching her.
*
The house wasn’t hard to find. ‘The last one in the thatched terrace,’ Matthew had said and he opened the door almost before she had finished ringing the bell, welcoming her in with a cautious smile.
‘I’m sorry I’m late.’ She thrust the bottle at him. ‘I can’t vouch for the wine. The choice wasn’t great.’
‘Thanks, but you shouldn’t have.’
They were in a narrow hall with a straight run of stairs ahead. He ushered her through a doorway to the right into a low-ceilinged sitting room with a couple of armchairs positioned around an open fireplace. A television stood on a cupboard in one corner.
‘I’ve got some Prosecco chilled,’ said Matthew. ‘Would you like a glass?’
‘Please.’
He slipped through a door at the back of the room into the kitchen. She could hear the sound of a fridge opening.
‘Where does your sister live?’ she called through.
‘Gloucester. I put Harry on the train this morning. And he’s arrived safely. Karen - that’s my sister - texted me.’
Jo shuffled restlessly, glancing round. There was a framed snap of Harry on a cupboard against the side wall - the only photograph on view - and she crossed to look at it. The boy was on the beach, naked but for swimming trunks, posing with a cricket bat in front of two sticks rammed into the sand, his bony chest puffed up proudly, grinning happily.
‘Harry was eight when that was taken,’ said Matthew, reappearing and handing her a glass. ‘He was big into cricket at the time.’
‘Does he like staying with his aunt?’
‘Yes, but not for too long. He hasn’t been there for a while. He gets on OK with his cousins. She’s got a boy and a girl. Karen’s very organised and likes to make sure everyone else is too. Her kids are used to it but Harry isn’t. We were never like that.’
Jo smiled, unsure what to say.
‘Have a seat.’
‘Thanks.’
Matthew drank a little wine, fidgeting in the chair, glancing at his watch.
‘I hope you haven’t gone to too much trouble with dinner,’ Jo said and immediately wished she hadn’t. So trite.
‘I’ve enjoyed it.’ An awkward pause. ‘It was…just an idea I had. I…well, I don’t cook much but I find I quite like it. It’s very absorbing.’ The words petered out. ‘So…how’s your aunt?’
‘Improving, thanks. In fact she’s been discharged. I took her to a rehab centre up on Dartmoor yesterday and called back there today. She’s settling in.’
‘That’s a good sign. I’m glad.’
He sounded like he meant it. How good to be able to talk about her aunt with someone who had no agenda with her.
‘How long is she likely to be there?’ he asked.
‘The doctor said three or four weeks could make a big difference to her movement.’
‘And her memory?’
‘The jury’s still out on that one.’
Matthew nodded, thoughtful, then grinned.
‘My only knowledge of rehabilitation units comes from watching Bond movies. Spies round every corner. In fact, if the therapists are as glamorous as the ones in the films, let me know - I want to go there too.’
She laughed. ‘I will, but I think you might be disappointed. Still, hopefully she’ll like it there. There’s one thing you can be sure of with Eleanor: if she doesn’t, she’s bound to let me know about it.’
‘I love her spirit,’ said Matthew.
‘So do I. Though not when she’s throwing things at me.’
It was his turn to laugh. ‘She throws things?’
‘Not so much recently. But the head injury has, let’s say, brought out her angry side.’
‘Will she be well enough to come to the festival do you think?’
‘I doubt it. It’ll be too soon.’
‘Whatever, I hope the festival goes well. She got some flak for setting the thing up so it would prove her critics wrong.’
‘Flak? What sort of flak?’
‘Oh, you know: people who don’t like the idea of the place being taken over by “coachloads of pseudo-intellectuals”.’ He grinned again. ‘There is just a hint of exaggeration there. No-one’s expecting even one coach. Hell, how would it get down the lane?’
‘And Eleanor knew about this?’
He shrugged. ‘I think so. I think we discussed it at an early meeting but most people were happy about it. Though if you’re not interested in books and don’t have a business to run, I suppose it might feel intrusive.’
‘It’s only for a weekend, Matthew,’ she said defensively.
‘Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m not expressing my views.’ He glanced at his watch again. ‘Let’s eat, shall we? We do it in the kitchen here. I hope that’s all right.’
It was a plain pine table laid with brightly-coloured place settings, neatly arranged cutlery and napkins. Matthew served a golden frittata onto two plates and put a bowl of salad and a basket of sliced baguette on the table, inviting her to help herself. The atmosphere had noticeably eased. She began to relax. He offered red wine - his own - and they started to eat.
‘This is good,’ said Jo.
‘Thanks. I’m relieved.’
‘So does Harry phone you when he’s away, or is he too grown up for that?’
‘Only if there’s a problem. I think I’ve mentioned before that he’s not big into communication these days.’
‘Were you when you were his age?’
‘Probably not. But Karen took it upon herself to speak for both of us so I didn’t need to.’
Jo took a sip of wine. ‘Assuming she represented your views, that is.’
‘Trust me, it was easier to go with the flow either way.’
‘Really? I find that hard to believe. You don’t strike me as someone who goes with the flow much.’
‘No? So how do I strike you?’
She flushed. ‘Oh I don’t know. Forthright; strong-willed; not the sort of man to let his sister dictate to him.’
‘You make me sound scary.’
‘I didn’t mean it that way.’
They fell silent for several minutes. Jo tried to think of a way of dropping her meetings with Harry into the conversation. But the words you promised kept ringing through her head. She kept eating.
Matthew finished first and picked up his wine glass. ‘I looked up your mother on the internet the other day. I seem to be the only person on the committee who doesn’t know much about books and writers so I thought perhaps I should.’
‘You could just have asked me.’
‘Yes. But Nancy said your mother died young. I thought it might be better to look her up first. I read about her accident. I am sorry. I got the impression that she was quite a character. Like Eleanor I suppose.’
‘Yes and no. They were both strong personalities but had very different temperaments. Eleanor’s passionate and life-loving but quite disciplined. Organised. Mum was…’ She smiled sadly. ‘…I dunno: big-hearted and self-indulgent, kind but had no self-control. Gifted. She tasted extreme success too young and nothing quite lived up to her expectations after that.’
He frowned. ‘Sounds sad. I’m sorry.’
‘It was a waste and yet…’ She shrugged. ‘…I can’t imagine her growing old somehow. She hit life running and she’d never have coped with slowing down.’
‘That’s a nice way to think of it.’ He seemed to get lost in thought.
For dessert they ate raspberries with vanilla ice-cream and talked casually about the coffee shop and how busy everywhere was. Jo told him about Sidney’s incarceration but passed it off as an accident, unwilling to tell him the full contents of the note or her suspicions. What had happened to Eleanor was too tied up with Harry now.
Afterwards, with fresh glasses of wine, they returned to the sitting room. She noticed a book on the lower shelf of the coffee table and picked it up.
/>
‘Frank’s poetry. I didn’t know you had this.’ She opened it and was pulled up short. ‘Oh, sorry. It was Sophie’s.’
‘Yes. It’s OK.’
‘This book’s out of print now but I’ve got a copy back in Sussex. Well, you know how much I love his poetry.’ She began to flick through it. ‘Your wife must have loved it too. She’s marked so many pages.’ Jo found the poem about the bees and scanned it again, her fingers automatically smoothing down the dog-eared corner. ‘Was it meeting Frank that made you get this out?’
‘Not really. It was you. Quoting him to me like that. I remembered that Sophie had something of his. It was…surreal to find that you liked his poetry too.’ He pressed his lips together, fingers clenching. ‘Please don’t do that. Sophie always turned the corner over on things she wanted to go back to.'
Jo stopped, only then realising what she was doing. ‘Sorry.’ She carefully pressed the fold back into place, closed the book and put it back under the coffee table. She took a sip of wine, glancing across at him.
‘It sounds like we’d have had a lot in common. Which other writers did she like?’
He pulled a dismissive face. ‘I’m not sure. There were lots.’
‘I’m the same. So many authors and so little time to read.’
‘It’s a bit of a busman’s holiday for you, isn’t it, reading?’
‘It can be. It has to be something that really absorbs me.’ She made a point of looking round the room. ‘You haven’t got a photo of Sophie up. I’d love to see one.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. No.’