The Dream House (12 page)

While Joyce wasn’t looking, Kate gave Sam a quick hug, but felt powerless to undo the punishment of missing his very favourite dish, though her son’s shoulders shook in silent misery. If only she were in her own home and could discipline her children in her own way.

She also felt powerless when it came to Joyce’s relationship with Simon. All right, so the woman could be annoying, but Kate felt embarrassed whenever Simon was rude to Joyce, or fell into one of his sullen silences and offered his mother only monosyllables when she asked after his day. After all, they were relying on Joyce’s hospitality.

Kate knew that Joyce was very worried about Simon’s absence and, if she stopped to look at it squarely, which she didn’t want to do, Kate would agree.

She badly missed her husband’s company. She missed the way they had been a team. Now she felt she had been exiled from his life – locked in a tower, stationed in a distant outpost, whichever way you liked to look at it. Perhaps he felt the same way about her? And although she was making friends, putting down roots, it was often hard to concentrate on being in Suffolk. Her mind drifted all the time to London, wondering what her old colleagues were doing, how her friends were. She felt she was making a lot of the running in keeping up some of her friendships. Worse, she knew she was right – her old colleagues had moved on, they were forgetting about her. She could be doing more about getting freelance publicity work, but she hadn’t in all honesty enjoyed the bits and pieces she’d been doing, such as publicizing the uninspiring novel by a local TV interior-design-show presenter who had proved ungrateful for all her efforts, and a series of travel guides, which had bogged her down in endless administration. And, as predicted, she had to avoid any work that meant travelling to attend publication events – which meant most of the more interesting projects. No, she’d be better off turning her attention to something different.

‘Would you like to stay in Fernley, though?’ Debbie was asking.

‘Oh yes, it’s so friendly, it would be great to get a house there,’ Kate replied. She loved the little school, especially since Sam and Daisy were so obviously happy there. There was a surprising range to the curriculum, with parents often invited in to share their skills with the children. Mrs Smithson, the headmistress, was a calm and experienced teacher and manager, and knew instinctively how to treat each individual child. Sam had shown some early signs of dyslexia and she had immediately arranged some special exercises for him, which had made a great difference to his progress.

The only problem was to do with the facilities. The school buildings were originally Victorian and had reached the stage where some major repair work was required. Mrs Smithson had been chasing the local authority about the matter for some time now.

‘We must introduce you to some more of our friends locally,’ said Debbie. ‘And you and Simon should come along to the belly-dancing,’ she added, a twinkle in her eye.

‘Belly-dancing? Are you joking?’ said Kate. ‘Is this some local coven?’

Debbie laughed. ‘Hardly. The vicar’s wife runs it – she’s a dance teacher. It’s at the church hall in Seddington on Friday nights. It’s really funny who comes along. All ages, all sorts, all sizes!’

Seddington was a couple of miles away towards Halesworth. Fernley’s vicar was also vicar there. Although Kate sometimes took the children to St Felix’s Sunday School at Fernley, when there were services – Simon had refused point blank to go – she’d never been to Seddington church and had had no idea about all this other life that clearly went on there.

‘I’ll let you know, Debbie,’ was all she said now. Belly-dancing, indeed!

Kate, Sam and Daisy returned to Paradise Cottage at four o’clock. The children were tired, and they showed it in the usual unhelpful way of misbehaving. Daisy kept calling Sam a ‘weedy baby’. Sam kept hitting her with his toy sword until Kate took it away from him, then, at tea, he stood on a chair and threw his drink across the table at his sister. It missed and milkshake splashed all over the curtains. Kate bundled him up to his room. Then she went down to apologize to a tight-lipped Joyce.

‘Don’t worry, dear,’ the older woman said. ‘It’s just I don’t remember Simon ever doing anything like that when he was a child.’ Kate thought Joyce had a rather rose-tinted view of the infant Simon – she knew more than enough about his stubborn streak if he didn’t get his own way – but she didn’t like to say anything. She brought Sam down to say sorry, then they settled the children in front of a video cartoon while Joyce made her a cup of tea.

‘You look done in, dear.’ She patted Kate’s hand. ‘Why don’t you let me put them to bed tonight?’

‘Joyce, I couldn’t. You’ve had more than enough of the children this afternoon.’ Was that the light of martyrdom in her mother-in-law’s eyes, or a genuine desire to help? It wasn’t easy to tell.

‘They’re quieter now,’ Joyce said, almost pleading, ‘and I could make my peace with Sam. Why don’t you have a break – take Bobby out for a walk?’

Kate looked out of the window at the gorgeous golden evening. It would be wonderful to be out in the fields by herself. The temptation to skip the strung-out chores of children’s bedtime was too much to resist.

‘Thank you,’ she told Joyce. ‘And I’ll ring Dad and Claire later. I need to escape.’

‘A change of air will do you good,’ said Joyce, and little did she know how true this would prove.

Kate hauled back Bobby, who was straining, rasping, on his leash, and swung the gate shut behind her. She looked up at the children’s bedroom window. A small face was squashed against the glass in a halo of steam, the soft mouth spread, limpet-like in a parody of a kiss. Sam. Kate raised her hand and wiggled anemone fingers in an answering wave.

‘Bobby, come
here
. Don’t pull, you wretch,’ she hissed. Taking the three-year-old spaniel out was not exactly a break, she thought crossly, then felt chastened. It was certainly a change from getting Daisy and Sam in and out of the bath. Real-life bedtime was never like the ads. Poor Joyce . . .

Ouch! Kate, preoccupied, had hardly noticed where she was walking and now it was through a patch of stinging nettles. Bobby had led her the 200 yards down to Fernley Lane and left along the rough verge towards his favourite rabbit-chasing place, the cornfields. She felt another flash of irritation. The farmer had just ploughed and after yesterday’s rain the fields would be a quagmire. She should have worn her wellies. Hard luck, dog. ‘It’ll be through the village to the woods for us today, matey,’ she said sternly and dragged him round. Bobby sat down in the road and looked at her, resentment in his eyes. She frowned at him and pulled. Badly trained animal. Over-indulged surrogate child. All this was true, unfortunately, but his soulful eyes could still melt the hardest heart. She wouldn’t drag him all the way to Ketley Woods – that would be no pleasure for either of them. What should she do? She looked about for inspiration.

After a moment, a half-hidden notice across the road caught her eye. There, almost eclipsed by a huge holly bush, was a little opening between two hedgerows. Was it another way down to the woods?

‘C’mon, Bobby!’ Kate tugged. ‘Rabbits!’ she breathed in mock excitement. And this time when she pulled he came, sniffing the air joyfully. That was it with men, she thought, as she unclipped his lead. Mention food and off they go.

She grinned, the warm golden evening beginning to work its magic. The dry earth lane twisted and turned its way between the high hedges. It was like a maze, Kate realized with a growing feeling of excitement. She was being drawn on an adventure to she knew not where. The glowing disc of the dying sun poured liquid light on the chestnut earth, the knobbly roots of the hedge and the foliage shiny from the recent shower, and the air was filled with a heavy woody fragrance with high notes of spring flowers. There was Bobby, darting to and fro ahead, snorting and snuffling, occasionally raising his head to look at her with a look of doggy ecstasy. If only life here could always be like this.

She strode on, listening to the birdsong, feeling the tension gradually leave her shoulders. The path seemed to be curving away from the direction of Ketley Woods, uphill. Where was it taking her? It was widening now, and then suddenly, on the left, a high wall reared up. It was crumbly in places, the patterning in the bricks recognizably Victorian. The tops of trees loomed above. Occasionally the wall bulged or was breached where roots or branches tried to reclaim the space.

On she walked as if in a dream, the sun losing all its heat now, the light flickering from gold to silver to the colour of running water in the shadows of the great trees. A slight breeze picked up, lifting her fine hair. What might be over the wall? Kate wondered. There was something familiar about it.

Where was Bobby? It was a while since she had seen his feathery flag of a tail. She called. Silence, then Kate heard a single bark. She quickened her pace around the next bend in the path. No Bobby. Then something caught her eye. She stopped and looked.

A little door in the wall. A wooden door rounded at the top and with Gothic wrought-iron bars and a little slip latch. It was open slightly, shivering on its hinges in a sudden breath of wind. Could he have gone inside? ‘Bobby?’ she called. She made out another, more distant bark, this time definitely from the other side of the door. What should she do? She reached out her hand and pushed the door gently. It swung open and Kate stepped into the wild and beautiful garden of her dream.

Transfixed, she stood looking around, the door swinging to behind her. This was the same garden, the same house. No, the trees were taller, the walls more crumbly, the flowerbeds were overgrown, the greenhouse practically a ruin. It
was
the same garden, but many years on. There was evidence that the lawns were mown and the shrubs pruned, and of course the lovely Italianate features were still there, but the fountain wept no more, the gravel was scanty and the statues were half-covered in yellow lichen.

Kate was overwhelmed with shock. She raised her eyes to look at the house. Yes, that was how she remembered it. The wisteria, just coming into flower, covered more of the house. The grapevine in the conservatory was gone, though. The house itself looked deserted. All the windows were closed, the curtains drawn across some of the upstairs rooms. Kate walked up the gravel path to the flagged terrace. She could see the familiar silhouette of the scrolled chaise longue through the French windows. Perhaps she could go and see . . . Then she came to her senses. She was trespassing. She must find Bobby and leave.

To convince anyone inside that she wasn’t a creeping intruder, Kate marched noisily round the side of the house, rattling Bobby’s lead and calling for him. The building was really quite extensive. This must be the kitchen, this the scullery, here some outhouses and, beyond, the kitchen garden. ‘Bobby!’ she called out. She heard a couple of yaps, then a steady volley of barks and whining noises. Kate ran round a gravel path to the front. And there, in the porch, was Bobby.

He was scraping at the huge wooden door, whining and yelping.

‘Bad dog, come here. This isn’t our house.’ Surely if there was anyone in, they’d have come out by now to find out what the noise was all about. But there was nobody. ‘Come
on
, Bobby.’ He wouldn’t budge. They looked at each other, Bobby waiting to see what she would do next. She reached out to grab his collar and she heard something. A cry. The spaniel barked and they both listened. There it was again. Definitely a weak cry. Kate inspected the bell pull on the right of the iron-studded door. She dragged it down. A clang sounded deep within the house. Then came the cry again but no footsteps.

Kate looked in vain for a letter box. She peered through a diamond-paned window to the left of the door, but a great vase on the inside sill blocked her view. Retracing her steps out of the porch, she gazed through the window of what appeared to be the dining room – it was so cluttered with furniture and bric-à-brac that only the huge table gave away its original function. Nothing moved. Hurrying back to the front door, she tried and failed to turn the iron handle. She went to investigate the room on the other side of the hall, pressing her face up against a window and squinting. The library. Walls of books and, again, junk everywhere. The door to the hall was ajar. She could just see the dark panelled walls, the hall as full of furniture and curios as the other rooms, and – it was like a kick in the stomach – a newel post of the great carved staircase from her dream. At the bottom she could see a shape. It moved slightly. An arm lifted.

Kate went back to the front door, put her mouth against the crack and shouted, ‘Hello. Don’t worry! I’m coming!’

She jogged back round the house to the scullery door. Solid wood. Locked. She’d have to break a window. How did they do it on the telly? She shivered at the idea of pushing a cloth-covered hand through the glass and instead took a rock from the nearest flowerbed.

In the end it was the work of a moment. There was the sudden, shocking sound of shattering glass, which set Bobby jumping and barking. She stood on a small broken chair she found in the kitchen garden, eased back the casement window, laid down an old builder’s sack against the shards of glass, and hoisted herself through onto a work surface.

‘It’s all right,’ she called out. ‘I’m here.’ She scrambled down onto the floor with care and made her way through the warm half-darkness in the direction of the hall, and there before her at the foot of the stairs, lay the figure of a very old lady.

‘Oh, thank God, thank God,’ the lady whispered, as Kate knelt down beside her. She was on her back and Kate pulled off her jacket, folded it and slipped it between the woman’s head and the rug. She was so light and trembling – she must have been terrified lying here alone, Kate thought. She looked into the faded blue eyes, which were welling with tears, and even in the gloom could see the pain there. ‘I’ve . . . broken something – my hip.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m here.’ Kate spoke clearly to make sure she was heard. ‘I need to ring for an ambulance.’