Chapter One
The taxi trundled along at a leisurely speed, as though the driver had all the time in the world to cover the short distance from the station to the riverside village of Linston.
In the passenger seat, his stomach churning with anticipation, Alastair Lucas was on edge, a state of mind that was not helped by the annoying rattle in the door panel beside him. He was tempted to ram his elbow hard against the panel to see if that would silence the noise, but he didn’t think the taxi driver would appreciate him doing that.
To ease his anxiety, he focused his attention on looking out of the windscreen, at the sky that was littered with puffy white clouds and the sun that was already shining brightly. Rain must have fallen in the night, making the wet road glisten in the early morning sunlight. The passing scenery was wholly familiar to him, yet he was seeing it through new eyes, comparing it to the rich and varied landscapes that had been home to him since he’d gone away nine months ago.
‘Where did you say you wanted me to drop you off?’ the driver asked.
‘Linston End,’ said Alastair, ‘it’s on Linston Lower Road.’
‘That’ll be one of those exclusive places along the river, then, lawns right down to the water’s edge. Some lovely old houses there. I like those traditional properties, especially the thatched ones. Must be a nightmare to maintain though. Are you visiting?’ The man was probably thinking of the large backpack and scruffy holdall in the boot of the car.
‘No; I’m coming home.’
‘Been away have you? Somewhere nice?’
With no apparent expectation of a reply from Alastair, which was something of a relief to him, the man continued on with his chatter. ‘But I doubt you could find anywhere better than here. As my wife is always telling me, and she’s a local girl through and through, there’s nowhere in the world better than the Norfolk Broads. Okee-smokey, here’s Linston Lower Road, what number are we looking for?’
‘No number,’ said Alastair, suddenly wanting to have this last part of his journey over with. ‘I’ll tell you when to slow down.’
‘Right you are. Bet you’re looking forward to a decent cuppa, aren’t you? Doesn’t matter where you go in the world, there’s nothing like coming home to a nice cup of tea.’
‘It’s just around the bend after the beech hedge and the sign for Grebe House,’ said Alastair, thinking that a nice cup of tea couldn’t be further from his thoughts. The churning in his stomach had increased and his mouth was now dry. ‘You can drop me off at the gate if you like,’ he said, when the driver spotted the sign for Grebe House and slowed the car yet more, then began to turn the steering wheel.
‘No, no, if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing properly or not all.’
Alastair’s first glimpse of the thatched house as the car travelled the length of the hedge-lined drive filled him with irrational dread, had him wanting to tell the driver to turn the car around and take him back to the station.
But that would be the coward’s way out. He was home to face his demons and put the past to rest. Pulling himself together, he cast his mind back to when Linston End had been a place of great happiness for him, when it was the only place he wanted to be.
Thirty years ago his great Aunt Cora had left him the house in her will. Her generosity had not come as a surprise; Cora had repeatedly voiced her desire for him to inherit Linston End, knowing that ever since spending most of his childhood holidays with her, he loved it like a close friend.
It was Cora who had taught him to sail, and Cora who had shared her love of the Broads and its fascinating but threatened wildlife. It was Cora who had insisted, when he became a teenager, that he should bring with him a couple of friends for the summer holidays, not wanting him to be bored of her company.
Dear old Cora, she had given him so much, and now he was about to betray her, or so it felt. Would she be spinning in her grave at the thought of what he was about to put in play? He hoped not. He wanted her to understand that this was important to him, that to be happy he had to take this drastic step.
When the taxi driver had driven away, Alastair stood on the doorstep, his luggage at his feet. He was visited by a memory from a long time ago – the memory of his seven-year-old self arriving for the summer holidays. It was the first time he was to spend the holiday without his parents who, as actors, were starring together in a play touring the country. Normally they tried to avoid this happening, but in this instance there had been no avoiding their being away at the same time and so Cora, a woman not known for her love of children, having none of her own, was approached to take care of Alastair. Initially she had been unwilling, but had capitulated so long as her great nephew would not interfere with her bird watching, or any of her other pursuits and daily routines. His behaviour must have met her high standards, for from then on she invited him to stay every summer, and always without his parents. ‘They’re busy people and need time to themselves,’ she would say.
Alastair pushed the key into the lock of the front door and in a further attempt to distract himself, he recalled the knee-trembling apprehension he had experienced as a boy that day when the taxi driver had dropped him off that first time. Cora had originally intended to collect him from the station herself, but for whatever reason she had changed her mind at the last minute. She had greeted his cautious ring of the doorbell with a pair of binoculars hanging around her neck and the words: ‘Ah, so you’re here, are you? Good. Now then, stow your suitcase over there, go to the lavatory if you must, and then come with me. We haven’t a moment to lose. We’re off to Ranworth Broad to see some swallowtail butterflies.’ No sooner had he done as he’d been told, than he was being hustled outside and down the sweep of lawn to the boathouse, running at breakneck speed as though their lives depended upon it.
That was how life was with Cora: time was of the essence, not a second was to be lost. Life was to be lived to the fullest; otherwise, as she often said, what was the point? She had been one of the most spontaneous and passionate people he had known and it was how Alastair had wanted to live his own life. It had not always worked out that way, but now he was determined to follow Cora’s advice to the letter.
He opened the door and stepped into the large octagonal hall. The spacious and airy entrance always took visitors by surprise, but then the whole house was a clever blend of quirky and traditional Broadland architecture. Closing the door behind him, his heart – his treacherous heart, forever prone to nostalgic sentiment – gave a small, but unmistakable lurch at the prospect of what he planned to set in motion.
Thousands of miles away, his decision had been an act of much-needed liberation. Now though, as the familiar embrace of the house welcomed him home, and reminded him how good it had been to his wellbeing over the years, that it had always had the power to lift his spirits, even when life had felt more than he could cope with, he experienced a shadow of doubt.
He dumped his luggage at the foot of the stairs and walked through to the kitchen at the back of the house. He stood at the French doors to look out over the lawn and to Linston Mill on the other side of the river. The three-storey mill was privately owned, and one of the most photographed landmarks along this stretch of the River Bure. Artists flocked to it, too.
Originally built as a drainage mill for the surrounding marshland, it had a sense of isolation to it, in that to reach it one had to use a boat from this side of the river. There was the more inconvenient option by which it could be approached, and that was the long way round by road, but that entailed having to leave your car three hundred yards away from the mill and take the footpath that snaked its way through a dense copse of trees.
As a child, and when Cora had deemed him old enough to do it alone without coming to grief, he had often rowed over to visit the owner of the mill, an eccentric old boy who had been Cora’s closest friend. Back then Alastair never once considered they might be anything other than friends with a mutual interest in birdwatching, but as an adult he suspected there had been more to it than that.
For the last ten years the mill had been a second home for a couple of architects from London who had modernised it and occasionally let it out to friends. Linston End had been a second home for Alastair also, until two years ago, and shortly before his sixtieth birthday, when he and Orla had taken the step of moving here permanently from London. Something they had always planned to do once he retired from a longstanding career in banking and asset management. Risk assessment had been his particular forte, which was ironic, given the risk he was now about to take at the age of sixty-two.
With that thought, he turned away from the garden and view of the river and mill, and looked at the central island unit where, next to a glass vase filled with flowers, there was a note.
Welcome home!
