Reading on bedroom window seat overlooking front car park, spied rabble of neighbours traipsing up driveway later that evening, including Albie and a good-looking guy with baby strapped to chest. Opened window to eavesdrop. Chatting about cake but laughing was forced, like they were trying to shrug off a disappointment. Not surprised. Seriously think they can breathe colour and life into village after all these years? So ambitious. Although, if they manage it and people come, would make good story for local paper… no. Although, after time with Albie today, feel a softening. A new emotion. Possibility?
Then Ethan arrived, exiting battered car and sliding arms into suit jacket, before striding towards main door. Stopped to pull out his phone, scowling before shoving into trouser pocket. Lifting head, his eyes scanned front of building and I ducked down with hot cheeks. After he’d gone, stared blankly at pages of book, feeling a spot of warmth along my spine where it was pressed to wall. Must be water pipe? Wriggled against it, seeking comfort. For some reason, it worked.
Restless night’s sleep. Woke early with start. Dreamt about drinking in bar, numerous faces crowding in, and a glint of light reflecting off sharp object. Woke with a start, hairline sweaty, but cool shower blasted nightmare away. Left hair to dry naturally as couldn’t face scalp ache from tying back. Gilly and Ariel (remembered names from meeting, brain previously so good with details cranking back to life) noisy last night and this morning. Soft feminine moans and creaking bed audible through ceiling. Hope they’re not always having make-up sex. Soundtrack to life will get boring and would have to drown them out with soft rock.
This morning visited entrance hall to check for daily missive, and found one about sharing something of value with someone. Words familiar, couldn’t quite place why. Curious. Returned to flat to find Albie waiting for me. Greeting me with smile, asked if I was ready to go.
No, but did it anyway.
Glad was brave. Stroll along dusty tree-lined paths filled with proud-headed white-petalled wild garlic was lovely as day warmed. Green grass, leafy bushes, multi-hued fields stretching into distance, birds tweeting, bright sunlight on face, crisp fresh air. Albie was right, a shame to waste this part of day. Talked about favourite books and debated film adaptations. Lost track of time and walked for over an hour.
When got back to manor, invited me into his apartment. Nervous, so asked to leave front door open. He gave me quizzical look but agreed.
Followed him into lounge, which backed onto mine. Gasped. Not my style, but impressive. Filled with stunning antiquefurniture, like out of Alex Brown postcard series novel. He pointed out mahogany writing desk, Victorian rosewood mantel clock on shelf above neoclassical fireplace, gold gilded wall mirror, walnut bureau table holding TV, floral sofa, patterned wallpaper, polished floorboards, delicate painted vases. Gleaming treasure trove of bygone era. Must be a collector. Or maybe his late wife? Seeing my expression, Albie explained they’d enjoyed collecting beautiful things and he’d kept them all. Some they’d bought, some inherited, some given. Given? Asked in disbelief. Stuff must be worth fortune.
Smiling, ‘Over the years, we took people in or aided them, and some donated pieces. Remember what I said at the meeting. Choose kindness, every day.’
And get things in return? Didn’t say aloud as felt uncharitable. Also, came across random acts of kindness in journalistic career, so wasn’t always cynical. Yes, lots of stories about terrible events, but also wrote about a stranger saving a dog from drowning, good Samaritan rescuing family from car wreck, or someone knitting free toys for local neonatal unit. Hopeful about the world, writing those. Now every day is herculean task to bear. Albie seems to cherish time he has, and is colourful. Today, emulating Sherlock Holmes in formal trousers, smoking jacket, silk cravat at neck. Half expected him to don deerstalker and produce pipe.
Sat on sofa as he detailed rebuild plans and showed me pad of scribbles. Squinted. He explained ideas about starting with his cottage and grouping funds written quickly, so not usual penmanship. Asked why notes not taken on a device, and he chortled. ‘I don’t like technology, and my typing speed is about twenty words per minute. Plunk, plunk, plunk.’
Before could think through, offered to type up notes and circulate via email.
‘Thank you, that’s kind. Rose always used to—’ Stopped and rubbed centre of his chest.
‘Sorry.’ I murmured. ‘Does it hurt to talk about her?’
‘I miss her, that’s all.’ Leaned toward me. ‘Sometimes, I speak to her as if she’s still here.’
We’re a right pair. Him conversing with someone long gone, me trying to avoid conversing with living. Odd to think I was nearly not among them. Black thought made me shiver.
Be brave, Tori.
Taking a breath, reached out and clasped his hand. Was comforting, not scary. Maybe Albie, and this place, bringing me back to life.
Gazing around awe-inspiring room, mahogany and walnut furniture gleaming and perfectly suited to manor, thought of note from entrance hall and recalled he used similar words yesterday.Interesting.Think my theory is right. I smiled. ‘Albie, thank you for sharing something of value with me.’
Mantel clock gonged, and he jumped, putting a hand to his chest.
‘What’s wrong?’ I frowned.
Tilting his head, he stared at clock. ‘I— Nothing. It’s just that’s been broken for over fifteen years. And it only strikes on the hour, and half hour. Which is not now.’
Huh. Strange thought, but maybe not just me being brought back to life. Other things too.
CHAPTER 11
Harley
Unexpectedly Pay for Something for Someone
Harley’s foot presses the accelerator of the manor’s Ford Transit as he makes a reluctant, but much needed, supply run. He misses the luxury Jag he lost in the divorce, but the van comes with the job and is better suited for transporting plants, mulch and gravel.
Resting his arm on the open window and turning up the radio, he inhales the floral spring air drifting in from the country roads. Exhaling, his body relaxes. Getting up early to carry out manual labour around the manor is helping. The doctors said to treat his body well by maintaining a healthy diet and moderating his drinking, but it’d been too easy before leaving London to form bad habits after years of discipline. Tennis used to mean he was in great shape, lean but muscled, eyes bright with adrenaline, a healthy sheen to his skin, a striking physicality in the way he loped around the court.
Now, a few weeks since moving day, the little paunch is melting away and his skin’s tanning with time spent outdoors.The faint guilt for abusing his body and the gift someone so selflessly provided is also receding. It’s the fittest he’s been since before the op, and the desire to quench his unhappiness with alcohol is diminishing. Now he’s content with a solitary beer at dinnertime.
Joining the dual carriageway and buzzing the window up, he acknowledges the more he looks like his old self – ironically, making him recognisable when he’s trying to hide – the less he feels like that man. His former self wouldn’t be caught dead mowing a lawn with a little girl, explaining the composting process or opening a juice bottle, but now he finds simple tasks satisfying. To his surprise, Rosie isn’t annoying, and it’s easy spending time with her, other than when he slips up and swears without thinking.
