Empty Nest (18 page)

“Here now,” Vesta said, setting down a plate of custard cream biscuits beside the teapot. She put her hand over mine. “Better?”

I nodded and smiled. She had held me until I had stopped crying, then sent me into the loo to wash my face. Now, settled at the table, I sighed.

“I don't know what's wrong. I feel so hopeless. I can't concentrate and look”—I dug in my bag and pulled out my partially eaten lunch—“Sheila made me this lovely sandwich, and I don't even want to eat it.”

Vesta held the back of her hand to my forehead. “No fever. You've great upheaval in your life at the moment, Julia. Away from your cottage, the tragedy at the Hall. And Michael.”

I reached for a biscuit and dunked it in my tea.

“Have you spoken with him?” she asked. I shook my head. “Do you want to?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Well, then, you've a task ahead of you.”

Quite a task—dismantling the roadblock I'd so carefully installed.

“Stay to dinner, why don't you?” Vesta asked. “Akash will be in soon—we would love it.”

It was only then the gloom that surrounded me lifted enough that I noticed the recent additions to the interior of Vesta's cottage. A pair of men's slippers under the bench at the front door, a flat cap hanging from the hook.

“Vesta, I didn't know.”

“Well, he was only living above the shop—two small rooms. It seemed for the best that he move in here.” The pink tint to Vesta's cheeks perfectly matched her champagne-rinsed hair. “And I'm quite happy he did.”

I rang Sheila with my excuses, followed by the more difficult call to Linus. Two evenings in a row I'd skipped dinner at the Hall. “It's only that I found myself in the village,” I said to him, “and stopped to see Vesta. Well, time got away from us. You don't mind, do you?”

The anger flared up in his voice. “I will not have Isabel drive you away from here.”

“No, Linus, please—it isn't her.” Well, only partly so. “I won't be late; I'll see you in the kitchen for cocoa.”

My spirits slightly buoyed by my promise to Vesta—talk to Michael—and my reprieve from an evening with Isabel, I enjoyed dinner and did justice to a small portion of chicken curry.

“We'll run you up to the Hall,” Akash said as I buttoned up my coat.

“No, I'm all right. It'll do me good, the walk.”

“But there are no lights on the road past the bridge.”

“Yes, but I have my tiny trusty torch.” I held it up, no bigger than a lipstick.

The village was quiet as I made my way through, although cars clustered round the Royal Oak, across the green, and further on near the Stoat and Hare. Occasionally a car passed me on the road, but traffic was light on a Monday evening gone ten o'clock. I approached the bridge and heard a car coming up behind me. I slowed my pace, waiting for it to overtake me before I crossed the road. The car slowed, too. A pricking sensation crept up my arms as I cut my eyes back over my shoulder to see the car staying not twenty feet behind me. I was on the bridge now, walking on the narrow path between the bridge wall and road. I sped up, not knowing what sort of game the driver played at, but unwilling to be caught where I couldn't escape. When I hurried, the car picked up its speed ever so slightly.

Darkness loomed on the other side of the bridge where the streetlights ceased. What would I do when I reached the end of the light—dash into the hedge on the left and tumble down into the brook? Turn and face my stalker?

A horn honked and I jumped, steeling myself for the worst. But the horn came from another car, behind my stalker—someone too impatient with this snail's pace. The car that had been dogging me wheeled around, tires screeching, and sped off in the other direction, turning down a lane before I could even identify the make.

I leaned against the waist-high wall, breathing heavily, and waited to regain strength in my legs as the other car had continued on its way. My mind raced trying to make sense of what happened, and several minutes passed before I inhaled deeply and stood straight again. I made certain the road was empty before I scooted across and up the drive to the Hall by bright starlight, unable to keep from checking over my shoulder or to shake off the fear of pursuit. It came to me that ever since it had happened, I'd been banging on about Freddy's death and poisoned sparrow hawks for all to hear. Had someone heard who shouldn't've and thought I needed to be kept quiet?

But by the time I reached the courtyard, breathing easier, I'd demoted the incident to a figment of my imagination or harassment by an unknown person from off the estate. I was safe, unharmed—I had invented a sinister agenda where none existed. If the group of rowdy boys in the village had been old enough to drive, I would've blamed them—they're always an easy target.

“Are they all in there?” I whispered to Thorne, nodding toward the library as I slid out of my coat in the entry.

“The household scattered to the four winds after dinner, Ms. Lanchester,” he replied.

I glanced round the entry, the silence of the Hall pulsing in my ears.

“Well, Thorne,” I said too loudly, searching for a safe subject to fill the space with normality. “Record number of red-throated divers seen on the coast in Essex—did you read the item?”

Thorne took up the topic of birds and we chatted for a few minutes until a rattle of china turned my head. Sheila emerged from the library, coffee tray in hand. When she passed us, I felt a wave of cold air from outdoors.

“No one's touched a drop,” she said.

Cecil appeared from somewhere in the back of the house, shedding his coat, and a moment later, Addleton came out of the corridor that led to the kitchen, wiping his hands on a cloth. When he saw Sheila he said, “The threads are nearly stripped on the hot tap at the sink, Mrs. Bugg. We'll need to put out word for a replacement—if any exist for that model.”

Isabel emerged from the same corridor as Addleton, bringing more cold air. She looked round at the group and raised her eyebrows. “Are we starting a tour of the Hall? Where is Linus?”

“His Lordship is taking some air,” Thorne said.

The door creaked open and Linus walked in. “Is there something wrong?” he asked, looking from face to face.

Heads shook, voices murmured. A fearful thought dashed in my mind as I looked at the people around me—where had they all been when I was walking across the bridge with a car hot on my heels? I shook my head, and it turned into a shiver.
Stop it, Julia.
Where had this paranoia come from? My low spirits were playing tricks on me.

“The coffee's gone cold,” Sheila said. “I can do another pot.”

“No,” Linus said. “There's no need.”

I desperately wanted out of the front entry and into my room. I began edging round the group toward the stairs.

“Julia, your day off went well?” Linus asked.

I smiled and nodded. “Linus, I believe we should have all the footpaths on the estate reassessed and re-signed. And pave a few for disability access, don't you think?”

“You didn't lose your way again, did you, Ms. Lanchester?” Addleton asked.

I threw him a look. “No, Mr. Addleton, I found my way back from the village with no trouble,” I said, and turned back to Linus. “Did you know that Mr. Addleton has been helping the police by looking for the pesticide that killed the sparrow hawks? It's very good of you,” I said to the agent. Did I mean to goad him? Probably. At least I didn't include Freddy's name.

Isabel gave Addleton a sharp look. “You have open access across the estate, don't you, Mr. Addleton?”

He looked back at her, and I had to admire his frank gaze. “It's part of my duty, my Lady. But I don't go where I don't have permission.”

Later in the kitchen, I set the milk on to simmer and spooned cocoa into two mugs. Linus didn't knock this time, but he did look over his shoulder before closing the door. I wondered should I get out a third mug for Isabel.

We settled at the table.

“I'm sorry I missed dinner,” I said.

He smiled. “No one can blame you for wanting a pleasant meal. I'm surprised Addleton came.”

“Thorne said you'd taken a walk,” I said.

“I went down the path I've seen you take, hoping I'd meet you coming back—you really shouldn't walk alone this late. I returned by way of the drive. You were all right, weren't you—walking?”

“Of course I was.” As if I was going to add to his troubles by telling some tale about being followed. “But I did get lost earlier today,” I confessed with a smile. “I'd gone over to visit Adam and wanted to walk into the village from the orchard. Mr. Addleton came across me sitting on a stile eating my lunch.”

“It's no wonder,” Linus said. “Those signs are ancient. We'll get them replaced.”

“Linus, where did Mr. Addleton say he came from?”

“Dorset—a house called Monks Barton.”

“And the people—what was their name again?”

“Drake,” Linus replied. “Tony and Nan Drake.”

I wondered if Freddy Peacock had ties in Dorset.

“Why ever did he want to come all this way for a new position?” What I really wanted to know was how he picked the Fotheringill estate out of the hat. Estates this size covered the English countryside, and we couldn't be so well known that Addleton had singled it out as the one place he'd like to be agent.

“He's no family, but said he thought he'd like to come back to this area again.”

“Yes, right—you said he came from Essex.” We were quiet as we finished our cocoa. I hated to disturb Linus—he had leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out under the table and looked more comfortable than I'd seen him in ages. But we couldn't spend the night holed up in the kitchen.

I climbed into bed, phone in hand. After staring at the screen for several minutes, I began a text to Michael. “Filming going well?” Delete. “Cornwall accommodations satisfactory?” What was I, a holiday booking service? Delete. “I'm sorry. I miss you.” My thumb hovered above the screen before cowardice overtook me. Delete.

How did I get into this?
I thought the next afternoon. My cardigan sleeves had been pushed up, and a thick, cold, wet coating of flour paste covered my arms from elbows to the tips of my fingers. I held up a torn strip of newspaper and asked Willow, “Now where?”

Willow, too, was up to her elbows in flour paste. She smoothed out a strip of paper she'd just applied, and ended up with a great wodge of paste on her finger. When she shook her hand, the paste plopped onto the toes of her green socks, sticking out of her sandals. She wiped the rest on her apron. Why wasn't I wearing an apron?

Willow nodded to a pillar, one of four that rose from the great hulk of chicken wire and gluey newspaper. “There, you can finish off the turret on the north wing.”

“Lovely,” I said, making the mistake of scratching my nose. “That's just over my room.”

There, in all its papier-mâché glory, stood Hoggin Hall. That morning, Willow had careered in the door of the TIC with the wire form, almost as big as she was. At that point, it didn't look much like the Hall—and now, two layers of wet paper later, it still didn't. But Willow had assured Vesta and me that once dried and painted, anyone would recognize it as the Hall. She said it would be an eye-catching addition to the front window of the tourist center, and a way of promoting the papier-mâché activity center in the church hall during the Christmas Market, where children could create their own ornaments.

Willow had taken possession of our entire back work area for the project, muscling Vesta and me to the front. I sent Vesta home at lunch. I'd got my sandwich from Akash today, not wanting to bother Sheila with sorting something out, and I had a few bites while standing in the loo, watching Willow brandish a hair dryer on the initial layer of newspaper strips. She had begun applying the second layer at about four o'clock, and I had not been able to stand it any longer.

“Let me help.”

And so, there I was up to my elbows in flour paste—it felt vaguely therapeutic—when Cecil walked in.

“Ah, oh. Am I disturbing something?” He squinted his eyes at the shapeless hulk that occupied the table. “Is that the Hall?”

“Gosh, yes, Mr. Fotheringill—well spotted,” Willow said. “Mind you, once we've…I've painted it and lined out the bricks and all, it'll be amazing. We'll put it in the window.”

Cecil turned to look at the shallow shelf. “This window?”

Willow looked at the space available and back at the model. “Hmmm,” she said.

“Julia,” Cecil said, “I have seven names for you—people from the farms—who'd like to help with the Boxing Day Bird Count. I told them they'd hear from you first thing tomorrow.”

“That's grand, Cecil—just drop the list there on the counter, and I'll take care of it.”

Cecil didn't move. “I don't actually have a list—I can tell you their names.”

I raised my hands, fingers spread like a surgeon about to be gloved. “I'm unable to write at the moment. Look”—with my nose I pointed to paper and pen inches from him—“can you write them down yourself? Just print them clearly, and I'll take it from there. Either that or wait until tomorrow.”

I saw him eye the pen as if it were an adder about to strike, and too late I remembered his difficulties with writing. I felt lower than a worm. “I mean, listen…”

Willow had walked out to the front. “You know, Mr. Fotheringill,” she said in a conversational tone, “I often find it easier to use joined-up writing—cursive—when I'm trying to get my thoughts down or spell someone's name correctly. There's something about that continuous flow”—she moved one pasty hand in the air as if she were directing a symphony—“of pen to paper that helps me along.”

Cecil looked down at her and gave me a quick glance. Willow and I turned our attention to the Hall. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cecil pick up the pen, hold the paper down, and begin writing. Willow's glance darted repeatedly to Cecil as she dipped and redipped the same strip of paper.

It seemed to take forever, but I thought it better to look busy than to stand and wait for him to finish. The paste on my arms had begun to dry, drawing up my skin. I applied a few more strips of newspaper, finding it more and more difficult to get the paper to adhere to the Hall, although it stuck quite well to me. At last, Cecil exhaled and said, “There you are, Julia.”

“Thank you, Cecil,” I said, contrite and sticky. “I'll get to it as soon as I can.”

Cecil nodded. “And thank you, Ms. Wynn-Finch, for that suggestion.”

“Oh please, it's Willow.” Her voice had jumped an octave.

“Yes, well, Willow,” he said, hands behind his back. “And you must call me Cecil.”

Willow puffed up, her whole face a remarkable shade of fuchsia. She looked like a balloon about to burst.

“Cecil,” I said, “would you like a cup of tea?”

“Perhaps not today.” Cecil glanced at our coated hands. Willow giggled, and he smiled. With surprise, I thought what a good-looking man he was.

My phone rang. I had positioned it on the counter so that I could see it easily, yet it would escape its own layer of paste. Now I leaned over, my heart skipping a beat in hopes that it might be Michael.

“Ah!”
I shouted, waving encrusted arms in the air. “It's Beryl—about my sister. It's the baby! Quick, please, Cecil, answer it for me.” He had the only clean hands in the place. He slid his finger across the screen.

“Beryl—what's the news? How is Bee? What about baby?” I shouted at the phone. Cecil's finger hovered over “speaker,” and he raised his eyebrows at me. I nodded, and the weary delight in Beryl's voice was heard by us all.

“Everyone is doing fine,” she said. “You have a beautiful new niece.”

“It's a girl!” I said to Willow and Cecil, as if they hadn't heard. “When, Beryl? What's her name?”

“Two hours ago. We barely made it to the hospital—she came as quick as anything once she'd finally made her mind up. Bianca's insisting they go home this evening.”

“Are you with Bee? Can I speak to her?” I heard a scuffling. “Bee—are you there? How did it go? How do you feel? Who does the baby look like?”

“Fine, tired. She's a bit of Emmet about her,” Bianca said. “That nose.” Ah, I thought, cute and turned up at the tip. Like Mum's. “Like yours. Are you coming down, Julia?”

“Of course I am—immediately. I'll leave first thing in the morning. Bee, what's her name?”

“I'm knackered, Jools. We'll see you soon.”

“Congratulations to your sister,” Cecil said before he left.

“Thanks,” I said, beaming. “I'll see you at dinner.”

Willow and I scraped flour paste off our hands and arms, washed, and tidied as much as possible while I told her tales of my nieces and nephew. I ached to see them all again—and Bee and her husband, Paul, and Beryl and Dad. I didn't forget, of course, that Michael was in Cornwall as well.

Hoggin Hall had glued itself to the table, and so we left it
in situ
to reign over the back room—at least until it dried completely, after which Willow promised to take it away before painting it. I said she'd never be able to lift it on her own, and she told me that Cecil had offered to move it for her. I wiggled my eyebrows at Willow; she blushed and muttered, “Oh, gosh.”

“Willow,” I said as we readied to lock up, “how did you know it would help Cecil—writing instead of printing?” I felt uneasy even asking the question, as it wasn't my place to point out Cecil's learning disability.

“I know it helps me—it keeps those pesky letters from dancing about the page,” she said. “Cecil has dyslexia.”

“I didn't tell you that,” I said, hoping I hadn't let it slip. “How do you know?”

“I could tell the night of the market vendors meeting—the way he couldn't make out the names on the chart. I know, because I have it, too.”

“You're…but you're going to be a teacher.”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling to show the gap in her front teeth. “Amazing, isn't it? I don't have nearly the problems that some people do, but even so, it took me a good few years to realize I could be a teacher. I don't want school to be frightening for children. Cecil must've had a terrible time—I can see the struggle in his eyes.” She could see more in him than I could, I admitted with shame.

“It's passed down in families, you know,” she continued as we walked up the pavement toward her aunt Lottie's wool shop. “Usually father to son, but that's not always the case—look at me. I'm the only one in my family. But I had a wonderful teacher when I was still in primary school—she truly saved me. And now, that's what I want to do for others.”