“Yes.” I gulp suddenly unsure.
When I thought he lived in an ordinary village house, I’d somehow imagined something warm and cosy, a middle-aged family man. This bizarre manor with acres of wild overgrown bushes around it like something out ofSleeping Beauty,it’s quite unnerving.
“Okay, all you do is turn into that little road.” Welsh Hagrid points to where the main road forks into a narrower lane. “Should take you to the front door.” He unclips his seat belt.
“You’re getting out?” I ask almost alarmed that he’s leaving me here.
He starts to open the car door. “I was on my way to the Kotts farm when I saw you. So, I’d better be on my way before they sell out of chickens.”
“I can drive you there.” Even if he cuts directly across the fields instead of down through the village, it’s still a couple of miles to where I’d first met him. “I mean, you can’t walk in the rain.”
He chuckles behind his moustache. “If I was bothered by a little rain, I’d never get anything done.”
And that’s it. He’s out of the car, pulling on his coat and heading back the way we came.
Alone inside the car, I watch him in my rear-view mirror as he walks with long strides, rain falling on him. There’s nothing left of him in the car except faint smell of his clothes.
When he’s disappeared from view, I turn my gaze towards the half-grey half-pink Kendric House.
Deep breath. Car into gear. Foot off the brake. Here we go.
chapter Six
Kendric House must have been a beautiful place once upon a time. A time long, long ago. Yes, my car goes through pretty gates under a stone arch, but the swirling wrought iron is rusted, and dead vines climb all over it. The long drive curves all the way to the magnificent house, but close up, all the windows on the upper floors are dark, grimy, or cracked. The front garden is dead beyond any resurrection. Yet, the front door has been repainted a pretty light green and has a beautiful art nouveau knocker in pewter or silver or something.
People do live here because there are several cars parked in front of the house, a couple of 4x4s and a classic Saab. One of these must belong to my biological father.
Squaring my shoulders, and keeping my jumping heart from flying out, I lift the silver knocker and give it a couple of raps.
Nothing.
I knock again, a little louder.
Again, nothing.
Considering the size of this house, a small pretty knocker is unlikely to be heard anywhere. I try one more time, banging the knocker really hard. It’s only then I see the footpath. The kind you get when many feet have walked over grass and crushed it to solid earth.
I follow it along the wall towards the side of the house. It’s one of the arms of the X, a wing of the house, and judging by the six clean windows, it’s the wing that’s being renovated. At the end there’s another door, a smaller wooden one, also painted the same pale green, and this one has a proper modern bell. It makes a loud ringing sound inside and after a minute, a man shouts, “It’s open, just push it.”
Inside, a builder in white overalls and a back-to-front baseball cap, stands on a ladder. He’s painting the edge of the ceiling with a tiny brush.
“Hi?” He looks down at me.
“Hello, I’m here to see Professor Jones.”
The man dips his brush into a small bucket hanging from the ladder, wipes his hands on his overalls, and climbs down. Jumping the last three rungs, he lands on the floor with a light thump.
“Hi. I’m Alex.” His eyes linger on me, and, as if recalling his appearance, he snatches off the dirty baseball. He also wipes a sleeve over his face. “How can I help?”
“I’d like to see William Jones please,” I repeat in as serious a tone as I can make it.
“He’s not here.” His gaze travels over me. It’s quick and no doubt he thinks I didn’t notice. “Can anyone else help?”
“When will he be back?”
He turns his palms up in a ‘who knows’ gesture. “Are you one of his students?”
He stands a little too close, smiling slightly, and looks as if he would like to feast his eyes on me all day.
