by Lucy Dawson
‘Well, my sister’s daughter-in-law, she never liked going in that room on her own after that, I can tell you.’ Mary was not to be derailed. ‘I don’t know if she sensed the spirit of him or his wife though. I’ll ask her when I see her next, but what—’
I exhaled slowly. She had barely drawn breath. How the bloody hell had Richard Morgan put up with such verbal incontinence their whole married life?
‘—that house needs now is someone from out of town to come in with more money than sense: spend a fortune, make it into a family house and have done with it. You don’t want to do that, Eve. You’re very sensible to let someone else do all the hard work now and foot the bills. Mark my words – that’s who will buy it, not someone from round here. Then you can finally have a new start! You just need to hang on in there, love! They’ll turn up eventually.’
‘Actually, there’s someone coming to view it the day after tomorrow,’ I snapped crossly.
Mary wrinkled her nose. ‘On a Saturday? This close to Christmas? Well, they’ll either be desperate or time-wasters. They’re probably just staying with family and fancy a nose to see how much space you can get up here for your money. I’d cancel it if I were you, Eve. All that cleaning for nothing. You’ll regret it, trust me.’
I wanted to scream when I finally escaped back out onto the street. Sometimes I wish I’d done the same as Paul Jones’s mother and moved away from the town straight away too – started again somewhere else with Izzie, but I know back then I felt I needed to stay. Michael was buried in the local churchyard. I couldn’t leave him. On the whole it’s been better, I think, because horrifically invasive though it is that people round here know everything about our history, they do at least make allowances for my daughter. And while I also hate that they all know I NEED to sell Fox Cottage, facts are facts. I just can’t do it any more; the cost of preventing it from crumbling away is crippling me. The retreats aren’t worth the increasing agitation they cause Izzie but neither is my art teacher’s salary enough on its own.
I actually hoped Bloody Mary was right for once, and the viewers would turn out to be desperate and buy it – because the time had come. There was no more money. We were going to be forced to have our ‘new start’ one way or the other.
I started my trudge home, towards the outskirts of town, past the quiet churchyard.
It’d sting you, like, if one of the pellets caught you – but not hurt. When you think Paul Jones died for that…
Mary Morgan isn’t malicious, just pig ignorant and insensitive. She has no idea about ‘hurt’. What she and people like her really forget is that these were children. Mary Morgan – with her blissfully straightforward farmer’s wife life, grown-up sons and grandchildren – has no imagination, no understanding of what it might be like to be seven, to really, truly believe that your teacher is shooting you for not running fast enough.
Lucky her. It looked and sounded like a real semi-automatic M4 – the second most manufactured gun in the world after the AK-47. It stuns me that people can have no empathy for what those ten seconds must have felt like to them: ten seconds of deep trauma that has forced those children to become adults they were never meant to be.
True – Jones didn’t tear their muscles or break their bones, but he violently shattered their small souls. Paul Jones stole so many futures that day – and when I think about that, I have not the slightest regret that I didn’t tell the police the gun wasn’t real. I’m glad they shot the bastard dead.
In fact, I would kill him with my bare hands for the damage he did, all over again, if he was stood in front of me now. I’d choke the life out of him slowly and deliberately. I would watch him suffer and I would enjoy it.
I wonder what Mary Morgan would say to that?
Two
Claire
‘Oooh. Junction 10A…’ I remark happily, seeing the sign. ‘Nearly on the M54! I always feel we’re mostly there when we get to this bit.’ I turn around and glance at Rosie who is fast asleep in the back, head hanging forward over her seat belt, forced to sit bolt upright on her booster. ‘Poor kid. I meant to get her one of those inflatable plane pillows, but I forgot. Still, we should be there by ten, didn’t you say?’
‘Yes, definitely.’ Tim glances at the illuminated clock on the dashboard.
‘Will your mum be back by then?’
‘I’m not sure. She’s been in court today.’
‘She must be knackered. I don’t know how she does it.’
‘She’s only part human, that’s how.’ He looks in his mirror and pulls into the outside lane to overtake. ‘Rampaging through the legal jungle like Predator, collecting her scalps while wheeling her suitcase of court documents behind her.’
‘Tim!’ I rebuke him. ‘That’s not very nice.’
‘She’s hard-core, is all I mean.’
I frown at him. ‘Whatever – it’s not exactly a flattering comparison. In any case, yes, you’re right, she’s very capable, but everyone has their limits.’
Tim says nothing, just yawns.
‘I’ll drive if you’re getting tired,’ I offer immediately, and he glances across before putting a reassuring hand on my leg.
‘Thanks, but I’m fine. I promise.’
‘OK, but say if you change your mind.’ I reach for another sweet. ‘I can’t stop eating these now.’ My thoughts return to his parents. ‘How exactly are they going to have the time to oversee a major house renovation on top of everything else?’
‘Sorry, what?’ Tim says absently. He’s not really listening.
‘This project house they’re going to buy,’ I repeat, ‘your mum is flat out at work and your dad is busier than ever.’
‘Well he won’t do any of the hands-on stuff.’ Tim pulls back into the slow lane carefully. ‘He’s past that now, but he’ll definitely be involved.’ He clears his throat.
‘I still don’t see why they need my opinion on this place? They don’t usually have a problem with doing what they want. I mean that in a nice way,’ I add quickly. ‘They’re decisive. That’s what I should have said.’
‘I know what you mean, it’s OK.’ Tim reaches for a Haribo. ‘Hang on – you’ve nearly eaten the whole bag!’
‘Sorry.’ I make an apologetic face. ‘I’ve got a mini hot cross bun if you want? Or a banana?’
‘I’m trying not to eat bread during the week though, aren’t I?’ Tim sighs.
‘Then have the banana.’ I reach down and produce it from the snack bag.
He shakes his head. ‘I don’t fancy it. I’ll just have a hot cross bun and start again tomorrow. Mum and Dad want you to look at the house because you’re good with property. Thanks.’ He takes the bun I hold out and eats it in one go. ‘Can I have another one, please?’
I roll my eyes, but say nothing and reach into the packet again. ‘I don’t think I’m “good with property” at all. I’ve not found us anywhere else to buy yet, have I?’
‘Not for the want of looking,’ Tim says kindly.
‘Thanks, babe.’ I sigh, then brighten. ‘At least when the right place comes along we’ll be able to grab it, now that we’ve got nothing to sell. Anyway, yes – I’ll happily look at these houses for them. It still blows my mind that you can get a whole massive house up here for the same price as a two-bed flat where we are. Why don’t they just do that, out of interest, if they want an investment? It would be a lot less hassle.’
‘I don’t know.’ Tim shifts uncomfortably in his seat. I know how he feels; my bum has gone numb too. Three and a half hours is too long to be in a car.
‘They’ve made you appointments for tomorrow morning at the three places they’ve shortlisted. I’m going to stay and look after Rosie.’
‘You’re not coming with me?’ I reach for one of the last remaining sweets.
‘No. Just you.’
I glance up in surprise. ‘No one is coming with me? Not even your Mum?’
He clears his throat again. ‘Mum has a favourite, so does Dad. T
hey want you to decide without being swayed by them.’
‘Oh no, so that’s it – I’m the arbiter? Great.’ I immediately go right off the idea. ‘Why are you doing your nervous cough thing?’
‘Am I? Sorry. I’m fine.’ He swallows instead. ‘I forgot to mention, you can’t let on that Mum and Dad are the potential purchasers. If the agents ask, you’ll need to pretend you’re the one who is buying.’
‘Why can’t I just be honest?’ I’m confused.
‘Because everyone knows Mum and Dad. If they went to look at a house locally then didn’t buy it and maybe bought something else instead, that might cause some resentment.’
I eat the last of the sweets and put the empty packet back in my bag. ‘But surely they’ve already viewed these houses? They’re not just going to blow £350k on something they’ve not even looked at? That’s mental!’
He shrugs. ‘I’ve no idea.’
I hesitate and realise perhaps he’s upset because Tony and Susannah have asked for my opinion and not his.
‘I suppose they know the places well enough,’ I say carefully. ‘They’ve lived locally for nearly thirty years, after all.’
He glances sideways at me. ‘Which is also why I can’t come with you. Everyone knows me too, don’t they?’
‘Oh yeah,’ I admit. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘It’s no big deal, Claire. They just want to know which one you’d choose. That’s all.’ He exhales, sounding stressed and I look at him again more carefully.
‘I’m really sorry you didn’t hear about the audition, Tim. I know you wanted to be able to tell your dad you’d got the part.’
‘It would have been nice, yes,’ he agrees, ‘but what will be, will be.’
I look away. I know this is all front. He wants this role really badly, but I also know he should have heard from his agent by now if he’d got it. I reach out and squeeze his hand supportively.
‘Why don’t you close your eyes for five minutes?’ he says.
Fair enough. He doesn’t want to discuss it. ‘Hint taken,’ I say, and swing the spotlight off his apparent latest rejection, by adding kindly: ‘no more house talk, I promise.’
He smiles gratefully and I do as I’m told. The rumble of the motorway beneath us, and the dark of the car, is seductive. It’s been a long week at work and I am tired.
It doesn’t occur to me to suspect a thing.
What a fool.
Three
Eve
There is a knock on the door at precisely quarter to eleven. Hurrying through the sitting room – my hands outstretched as if I am about to perform a papal blessing – I bitterly curse Ms Claire Waters for being fifteen minutes early and possessing neither the breeding or gumption to drive around the area for a bit, until our allotted viewing time. I try to twist the stiff door knob to the inner hall with my wrists so I don’t get oil all over it, but of course, that doesn’t work, so I give up and crossly yank it open, earning my first look at Ms Waters, who has actually pressed her little snub nose right up against the small square of glass in our front door, to get a better look in.
My eyes narrow, and darting forward I wrench it with all my might, but of course, the bloody thing sticks on the floor tiles with a clonk – as it has every day for the last two decades – so the effect is ruined and she doesn’t fall in through it at all, just jumps and stares at me.
‘Sorry about that,’ I say briskly. ‘We’ve got so used to it over the years we don’t notice it any more, but I’m sure it could be fixed with a simple re-hanging. I’m Eve Parkes. You must be Claire Waters?’
‘Yes, I am,’ she says cheerfully. I glance at her car on the forecourt, a thoroughly unflashy family Volvo, which tells me absolutely nothing about her financial status, but as said family are not getting out of it, pretty much everything about her intent. A serious potential buyer would have at least brought someone with her – if not her children, which she obviously has, as I can spy a booster seat in the back. Blast Mary Morgan, she’s absolutely right. This woman is a time-waster. As my shoulders tense, I step to one side. ‘Would you like to come in?’
She gratefully leaps out of the bitter wind roaring up the valley like Jack Frost himself, ready with his hoary fingers to snatch away anyone who isn’t safely inside. Obviously not a local either – Bloody Mary has called that correctly too – as her coat is some sort of camel-coloured, oversized, curiously mannish affair, the like of which one might see in a glossy women’s magazine. Almost a hairy dressing gown. Even if she was tall enough to pull the style off – which she isn’t – it would still be perfectly repellent and needs a hood at the very least to give it any practical purpose whatsoever. If she is this into appearances it’s going to be a very short viewing. I look down to see she’s teamed the coat with some rather extraordinary – and slightly tacky – red leather ankle boots. Out of nowhere, I’m suddenly reminded of a Paddington Bear toy Michael bought for Isobel not long after she was born. I soften slightly and realise she’s extended her hand to me in greeting.
‘I would,’ I say, ‘but I’ve just been grappling with the Rayburn and I’m covered in oil. Come in, I’ll wash my hands and we’ll start again, shall we?’
I turn abruptly on the spot and march off through the sitting room. She has the sense to follow me as we proceed on to the dining room and then into the kitchen.
‘I’ve already lost my bearings, even though I studied the floor plan last night!’ she says rather breathlessly, hovering in the doorway while I bend over the sink and scrub at my hands under the tap. ‘It’s big, isn’t it?’
I glance at her. ‘Yes it is. I’m sorry about the godawful smell.’
‘Oh please don’t worry. I can’t smell a thing,’ she says.
I snort and peer over my half-moon spectacles. ‘Really – you don’t have to be polite, it’s dreadful.’ I can’t see the point in us not acknowledging it, she isn’t going to buy the place anyway. ‘That thing,’ I nod at the Rayburn and dry my hands on a tea towel, ‘is a menace. It blows out constantly and did it again this morning – hence the overpowering fumes.’
She looks a little embarrassed. ‘No, I mean I actually have no sense of smell at all, so you could have got away with not mentioning it in my case.’
I stare at her, then laugh, taking off my glasses. ‘Really? Bugger. What are the chances? Oh well, there we go. Take it from me then, it absolutely reeks.’
She shrugs and gives me an apologetic smile, but I’ve heard the stair creak and my attention is already elsewhere. Isobel. I take a step forward, in time to see the door behind Ms Waters slowly pulling to. Ms Waters turns and looks over her shoulder into the apparently empty room. But I can see my daughter’s sylph outline behind the obscured glass door panel, as she waits for a moment, listening to us.
‘Are you coming in?’ I call pointedly, so she knows I’ve spotted her, only for the door to slam crossly, before the thumping of feet running upstairs reverberates throughout the house.
I sigh. ‘Sorry, that’s my daughter, Isobel.’ I rub my face with a hand, before putting my glasses back on. ‘She’s just off to see a friend, I think.’ If only that were true. ‘Can I offer you a tea or coffee?’ I say, albeit in a tone that doesn’t invite acceptance.
‘No, thank you,’ Ms Waters replies dutifully, better brought up than I thought after all; but then suddenly I go blank and completely forget where we were, too busy worrying about Izzie and hoping she isn’t gearing up for a scene.
‘Sorry – Ms Waters, what was I saying, before we were interrupted?’
‘Please, call me Claire,’ she invites. ‘You were telling me about the Aga going out all the time?’
‘Rayburn,’ I correct. ‘You cook on it like an Aga but a Rayburn will do the hot water, too – when it’s working, obviously. There’s an immersion switch you can flick when it goes out, although that gets the water dangerously hot if you forget about it. I mean it would literally blanch the skin from your bones if you ste
pped into a full bath inadvertently or put a child in, unawares. I noticed you had a booster seat in the back of your car, which is why I mention it – and there’s the cost, of course. Dreadfully expensive to heat like that.’
Ms Waters – Claire – raises two shocked eyebrows and I realise I am almost starting to enjoy myself. ‘Yes, you’re right,’ I agree. ‘This is exactly why people aren’t allowed to conduct their own viewings, isn’t it? The agents usually do them for me, but on a Saturday they won’t, they say it’s too far to drive over here from their offices in Shrewsbury when they’ve only got a skeleton staff. I didn’t want to use a local firm. I probably should have, but there we are. So tell me, Claire – the agents knew almost nothing about you at all when I asked – where do you hail from?’
‘Surrey.’
Of course she does.
‘And what brings you to Shropshire?’
‘I’m visiting my partner’s family.’
I nod. So far, so predictable. ‘Have you been looking to buy around here for a while?’
‘Not exactly.’
Well, at least she’s honest about that. I turn into the kitchen, walk across the room and throw open the back door. ‘OK, out here is what used to be pub urinals in a former life.’ I watch her nose wrinkle. ‘It’s now where I have the washing machine, big fridge, coats and boots – that sort of thing. There’s a door to the garden there and an arctic downstairs loo at the far end, if you want to take a look?’
‘I better had,’ she says, squeezing past me. ‘So that goes out to the garden,’ she points left – ‘and where does this lead?’ She gestures to her right.
‘Oh this house is a little bit like Alice in Wonderland, Claire,’ I say airily. ‘Doors everywhere. If you go that way,’ I nod in the direction she’s pointing, ‘you wind up in the library. Not as grand as it sounds, it’s just where I keep my boxes of books and the computer – that sort of thing. It was originally going to be a big communal dining room. My husband and I were going to run Fox Cottage as a B&B – or a boutique hotel as I think they’re now called – but shortly after we did all of the work, he died.’