Woken by birdsong, I take in my surroundings in the simply furnished room. It has solid country house proportions and a high ceiling with ornate cornicing picked out in off-white against pale lemon walls. There’s a sturdy antique wardrobe, a scuffed dark wooden chest of drawers and a tarnished mirror hanging above the burgundy-tiled fireplace. The iron-framed bed bears a chintzy quilted bedspread that I’d pulled around myself gratefully, not even minding its mustiness, after a quick supper last night. The fridge had been stocked with essentials, apparently by Morag, Alice’s mother’s housekeeper. Alice explained that she’s been popping in regularly, and will be on hand to help while we’re here.
Despite the fact that I’d arrived under completely false pretences, I slept soundly last night, in soft flannel pyjamas kindly lent by Alice. By that point I’d gone beyond stressing about Osprey House’s extensive, clearly badly neglected grounds.
Somehow, I decided, I’d figure out what to do.
Now I swivel out of bed, pad across the thin faded rug and throw open the moss green velvet curtains.
‘Oh!’ I exclaim out loud. Because beyond the overgrown gardens, the rolling Perthshire hills are bathed in hazy morning light. With difficulty, I manage to lift the lower half of the ancient sash window and fill my lungs with soft, cool air.
Hearing Alice pottering around downstairs, I dress in yesterday’s clothes, grateful for her foisting clean underwear on me last night. I’ve known her for a single day and already I’m borrowing her knickers.
‘Mum was still running it as a B&B well into her late eighties,’ Alice explains when I find her making coffee in the kitchen. ‘With Morag’s help, of course. But she still presided over the place, terrorising guests.’ She smirks and hands me a mug of coffee.
‘It’s a wonderful house,’ I say truthfully.
‘Come on, itisa bit bleak,’ she insists.
‘Only because it’s been lying empty.’
She nods. ‘It needs a lot of TLC. But that can come later when the place is cleared.’
My gaze skims the scuffed cream Aga and the enormous oak dresser stacked with crockery and glassware. Glass-fronted cabinets are filled with yet more china, and a bevy of cooking pots and utensils hang from racks on the creamy walls.
‘Is this what it was like,’ I ask, ‘when you were growing up?’
She nods. ‘Nothing’s changed really. My parents didn’t believe in upgrading anything until it literally fell apart. So, d’you fancy eggs before I give you a tour? I think Morag’s left us some. She has a smallholding—’
Before I can answer she’s produced a basket from somewhere, filled with eggs, and now she’s cracking and scrambling and brushing off my protests that I could do it – because aren’t I here to help?
‘Not to cook for me, Kate,’ she admonishes, good-naturedly. ‘You’ll have your work cut out, believe me.’
I smile, relieved that she’s apparently keen to get on, rather than asking me anything difficult – like why did I sign up with an agency? What kind of people have I ‘companioned’ for? If I let myself, I’d be a fizzling ball of anxiety. So again I push those fears away, wondering instead why Vince hasn’t been in touch since our conversation at Euston yesterday. He hasn’t even messaged me. Ididtell him I wasn’t coming home – but he must have thought I meant, ‘I’m not coming home just yet.’
Unless he really doesn’t care?
Maybe he’s sitting it out, waiting for me to crawl home, humiliated and full of regret. I’m trying not to think about his book that I was supposed to finish yesterday, or our garden table that’s no doubt still cluttered with bottles and cans. (What will the neighbours think!) None of that would have happened if I’d just said, ‘No, Vince, I’m not making a buffet’ and tipped a load of Wotsits into a big receptacle – like the washing-up bowl! That would’ve done! – and banged it on the kitchen table and been done with it.
‘Let’s go, Kate.’ My thoughts dissipate into the dusty air as, with breakfast over, Alice whisks me on a tour of the house, with the dogs trotting along at our sides. In the drawing room, the powder blue walls are hung with muted oil paintings of stags and eagles and sheep being herded across hillsides. The tiny study leading off it is entirely filled with books, most of which seem to be gardening manuals of some kind.
Perhaps I cancrammy brain with plant knowledge?
A utility room leads onto an overgrown kitchen garden. Amidst the tangled weeds a carved stone bird of prey – presumably an osprey – regards us coldly from its plinth. ‘Let me show you the rest of upstairs,’ Alice says. The elegant curved stone staircase leads to the L-shaped landing and a succession of bedrooms, all eerily still and clearly uninhabited for a long time.
‘This is my little den,’ she explains as we step into a box room. Extremely basic, and a little claustrophobic compared to the other bedrooms, it’s furnished with a single bed, a waist-high cupboard and what looks like a child’s desk at the window.
‘Wouldn’t you rather sleep in one of the other rooms?’ I ask.
‘I’m fine in here,’ she says quickly. ‘So, shall we head into town? I’m guessing there’s a few things you’ll need to stock up on...’
‘Oh, yes please.’ I glance down. ‘Ihatethis skirt,’ I add without thinking.
‘Did you have to wear it for work?’ She looks bemused.
‘Er, yes,’ I say quickly, relieved when the subject is dropped, and we head outside.
Wilma from the hotel messaged yesterday.Where are you? Are you coming in today or not?
I was poised to call and explain, gushing apologies, that I wouldn’t be in for my shift – or indeed ever again. Then I pictured those heel-lacerating shoes and the guests who’d made such a fuss about a winged insect floating in the swimming pool. (‘We didn’t pay to swim with bugs!’) Fuck it, I decided, and replied simply:I’m not coming back.Wilma’s lengthy and furious response wasn’t pleasant, and I barely skimmed it before deleting it from my phone.
