Flowers in the Rain & Other Stories (2 page)

“That’s a pity. Never mind. Another time. Fetch your mother, like a good boy.”

He put down the receiver and went into the kitchen.

“That’s Arnold on the phone…”

She was sitting at the table, drinking coffee and reading the morning paper. She wore her old turquoise wool dressing-gown and her beautiful red hair lay like silk down to her shoulders.

“Oh, thank you, darling.” She stood up, laying aside the paper, and brushed his head with her hand as she went out of the room.

Miranda, decked out as usual in beads and earrings, was eating her boiled egg.

“Hello, bootface,” William greeted her and went to the hot drawer to find his breakfast. It was bacon and sausage and egg.

“What does Arnold want?” Miranda asked.

“Asking us all out for lunch.”

She was immediately interested. “To a restaurant?” She was a social child, and loved eating out.

“That’s the idea.”

“Oh, good.” When their mother returned, she asked at once, “Are we going?”

“If you’d like to, Miranda. Arnold thought Cottescombe would be fun.”

William said shortly, “I can’t come.”

“Oh, darling, do. It’s such a lovely day.”

“I’ve got things I have to do. I’ll be all right.”

She did not argue. She knew, of course, that there was a secret up in his bedroom, but it was always carefully dust-sheeted when she went up to make his bed, and he knew that she was too highly principled ever to peep.

She sighed. “All right. We’ll leave you behind. You can have a peaceful day on your own.” She picked up the paper again. “The Manor House has been sold.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s here, in the paper. It’s been bought by a man called Geoffrey Wray. He’s the new manager of that electronics factory in Tryford. See for yourself…”

She handed the newspaper over to him, and William read the item with some interest. The Manor House used to belong to Miss Pritchett, and this house, the one in which William and his mother and Miranda lived, had once been the gate-lodge of the Manor, so whoever bought the big house would be their nearest neighbour.

Old Miss Pritchett had been an excellent neighbor, allowing them to use her garden as a short cut to the common and the hills beyond, and letting the children pick apples and plums in her orchard. But old Miss Pritchett had died three months ago, and since then the house had stood empty and sad.

But now … the manager of the electronics factory. William made a face.

His mother laughed. “What’s that for?”

“Sounds a bit boring. Bet he looks like an adding machine.”

“We’d better not go through the garden any longer. At least not until we’re invited to.”

“He probably won’t ever invite us.”

“You mustn’t have preconceived ideas. He might have a wife and a lot of jolly children for you to make friends with.”

But William only said, “I doubt it,” and put down the newspaper and went on with his breakfast.

*   *   *

He worked all morning on the doll’s house. At twelve o’clock, his mother tapped at his door, and he went out onto the landing, carefully closing the door behind him.

“We’re just off, William.” She wore her cord trousers and a big blanket coat and smelt of her best scent.

“Have a good time.”

“There’s a shepherd’s pie in the oven for your lunch. And take Loden for a walk if you’ve time.”

“I will.”

“But don’t go through the Manor House garden.”

“I won’t.”

*   *   *

The front door closed and he was alone. Reluctantly he went back to his task. He had made the staircase, gluing each little tread carefully into place, but for some reason it was a fraction too wide for the space allotted to it and impossible to fit into place.

Perhaps he had done something wrong. He went back, for the thousandth time, to the instruction sheet.

Glue stair treads to base. Glue second mid-wall to base …

He had done all that. And still the stairs would not fit. If only he had someone to ask, but the only person he could think of was his woodwork teacher, whom he didn’t much like anyway.

Suddenly, he longed for his father. His father would have known exactly what to do, would have taken over, reassured, explained, eased the little staircase into place with his clever fingers.

His father had always made everything so simple, so right. His father …

Horrified, unable to do anything about it, he felt the lump grow in his throat and the half-finished doll’s house and all its attendant bits and pieces were dissolved, lost, in a flood of tears. He had not cried for years; could not remember when he had last cried, and was appalled at his own childishness. Thank goodness there was no person but himself in the house; no person to see or hear or come to comfort. He found a handkerchief and blew his nose, wiped away the shameful tears. Beyond the open window he saw the warm spring day beckoning to him. He stuffed the handkerchief into the pocket of his jeans, thought, oh, to hell with the doll’s house, and was out of the room and down the stairs before he had even thought about it, whistling for Loden, bursting out of the front door, running as though he were competing in a vital race, with the cool air blowing into his face, and the black sheep-dog bounding delightedly at his heels.

After a bit, when he could run no farther, and was panting and gasping, and had a stitch, it was better. He felt released, refreshed. He bent double to relieve the stitch, to embrace Loden, and bury his face in the dog’s thick, dark coat.

When he had got his breath back, he straightened up, and it was only then that he realized he had forgotten his mother’s stricture, and that his feet, in their headlong escape, had carried him quite naturally through the gates of the Manor House and half-way up the drive. For a moment he hesitated, but the prospect of retracing his steps and going around by the road was too tedious for words. Besides, the house had only just been sold. There would be nobody there. Not yet.

He was wrong. As he came around the last curve of the lane, he saw the car parked in front of the house. The front door was open and a tall man was on the point of emerging, with a dog at his side. Immediately, all was lost. Miss Pritchett had not owned a dog, and Loden considered this his garden. He now let out a furious
woof
and all his hackles went up. The other dog sprang to instant attention, and William grabbed, just in time, for Loden’s collar.

Dark mutterings sounded in Loden’s throat. “For heaven’s sake, Loden, behave yourself,” William whispered desperately, but the other dog was already bounding towards them, a friendly-looking Labrador bitch, ready and waiting for a game.

Loden growled again. “Loden!” William jerked his collar. The growl changed to a whine. The Labrador approached and the dogs tentatively sniffed at each other. Loden’s hackles subsided, his tail began to wag. Cautiously, William released him, and the two dogs began to romp. So that was all right. Now he had to deal with the Labrador’s owner. He looked up. The man was coming towards him. A tall man, with a pleasantly weather-beaten look, as though he spent much time out of doors. The wind ruffled his greying hair, and he wore spectacles and a blue sweater. He carried a clipboard and a yardstick. He looked a bit like an architect. William hoped that he was.

He said, “Good morning.”

The man looked at his wrist-watch. “Actually, it’s good afternoon. Half past one.”

“I didn’t know it was so late.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m taking my dog for a walk. Going over the common and up onto the hill. I always used to come this way when Miss Pritchett was alive.” He enlarged on this. “I live in the house at the bottom of the road.”

“The lodge?”

“That’s right.”

“What’s your name?”

“William Radlett. I saw in the paper this morning that this house has been sold, but I didn’t think there’d be anybody here.”

“Just looking around,” said the man. “Taking a few measurements.”

“Are you an architect?”

“No. My name’s Geoffrey Wray.”

“Oh, so
you
…? He felt himself grow red in the face. “But you…” He had almost said,
You don’t look like an adding machine.
“I … I’m afraid I’m trespassing,” he finished at last, sounding feeble.

“No matter,” said Mr. Wray. “I’m not living here yet. Like I said, just taking a few measurements.” He turned to look back at the worn fabric face of the house. As though seeing it for the first time, William noticed the rotting trellis that supported the upper balcony, the blistered paintwork and broken guttering.

He said, “I suppose it will need a lot done to it. It’s a bit old-fashioned.”

“Yes, but charming. And most of it I can do myself. It’ll take time, but that’s half the fun.” The two dogs were by now quite at ease with each other, chasing around the rhododendron bushes and searching for rabbits. “They’ve made friends,” observed Mr. Wray.

“Yes.”

“How about you? I was just going to have something to eat. Brought a picnic with me. Like to share it?”

William remembered the shepherd’s pie, uneaten, and realized that he was ravenously hungry.

“Have you got enough?”

“I imagine so. Let’s go and look.”

He took a basket from the back seat of his car and carried this to the wrought-iron garden seat that stood by the front door. In the sun and out of the wind, it was quite warm. William accepted a ham sandwich.

“I’ve only got lager to drink,” said Mr. Wray. “Are you old enough to drink lager?”

“I’m twelve.”

“Old enough,” decided Mr. Wray, and handed over a can. “And there’s a fruit-cake. My mother makes excellent fruit-cake.”

“Did she make the sandwiches, too?”

“Yes.”

“Do you live with her?”

“Just for the moment. Until I come to live here.”

“Are you going to live here alone?”

“I haven’t got a wife, if that’s what you mean.”

“My mother thought you might have a wife and a lot of jolly children for us to play with.”

He smiled. “Who’s us?”

“Miranda and me. She’s nearly seven.”

“And where is she today?”

“She and my mother have gone out for lunch.”

“Have you always lived in the lodge?”

“Yes, always.”

“Does your father work in the town?”

“I haven’t got a father. He died about ten months ago.”

“I am sorry.” He looked and sounded both distressed and genuinely sympathetic, but, blessedly, not in the least embarrassed by William’s revelation. “I lost my father when I was about your age. Nothing’s ever quite the same again, is it?”

“No. No, it’s not the same.”

“How about a chocolate biscuit?” He held one out. William took it and looked up, straight into Mr. Wray’s eyes, and suddenly smiled, for no particular reason except that he felt comforted and at ease, and … last, but not least … not hungry any longer.

*   *   *

When they had finished the picnic they went indoors and all through the house, room by room. Without furniture, smelling chill and slightly damp, it could have been depressing, but it wasn’t. On the contrary, it was rather exciting, and flattering to be discussing plans as though he were a grown-up man.

“I thought I’d take this wall down, make a big open-plan kitchen. Fit an Aga in here, and build pine fitments around that corner.”

His enthusiasm dispelled the gloom even of the old kitchen, which smelt of stone floors and mice.

“And this old scullery I’ll turn into a workshop, with the work-bench here, under the window, and plenty of space for hanging tools and storing stuff.”

“My father had a workshop, but it was in a shed in the garden.”

“I expect you use it now.”

“No. I’m useless with my hands.”

“It’s amazing what you can do if you have to.”

“That’s what I thought,” said William impulsively, and then stopped.

“What did you think?” Mr. Wray prompted gently.

“I thought I could do something because I had to. But I can’t. It’s too difficult.”

“What would you be trying to do?”

“Build a doll’s house. From a kit. For my sister’s birthday.”

“What’s gone wrong?”

“Everything. I’m stuck. I can’t get the staircase to fit, and I can’t work out how to put the window-frames together. And the instructions are so
complicated.
”

“I hope you don’t mind my asking,” said Mr. Wray politely, “but if you aren’t a particularly handy chap, why did you embark on this in the first place?”

“Miranda was promised a doll’s house, by my father. And they’re too expensive to buy. I really thought I could do it.” He added, making a clean breast of his own stupidity, “And it cost twenty pounds. I’ve wasted twenty pounds.”

“Couldn’t your mother help you?”

“I want it to be a surprise.”

“Isn’t there anyone you could ask?”

“Not really.”

Mr. Wray turned and leaned against the old sink, his arms folded. “How about me?” he asked.

William looked up at him, frowning. “You?”

“Why not?”

“You’d help me?”

“If you want.”

“This afternoon? Now?”

“Good a time as any.”

He was flooded with gratitude. “Would you really? Just explain it to me. Show me what to do. It won’t take long. No more than half an hour…”

*   *   *

But it took a good deal longer than half an hour. The instructions had to be carefully studied, the little staircase sandpapered down and fitted into place. (It looked splendid; really real.) Then, on a clean sheet of newspaper, Mr. Wray placed all the little bits of wood in order, arranged into five small window surrounds, ready to be glued.

“You fit the glass in first, and then the frames fit round it, and keep it in place. Just like an ordinary window.”

“Oh, I
see.
”

Like all things, once explained, it became marvellously simple.

“You’d better paint them first and let them dry before you fix them permanently. And then the roof goes like this; and the scotia angle gets glued along the top of the front panel, so…”

“I can do that.”

“The hinges might be tricky. It’s a question of getting them quite straight so that the front panel swings straight. You don’t want any sag.”