I stroke the black Lab. ‘What did you say his name was?’
‘Her. Cady. As you can see, the dogs get on well together. Dorothea adored her animals.’
‘I remember.’ I stand up. The air smells of petrichor and wet dog. ‘I know it sounds an odd question, but did Dorothea ever mention me? She left all this to me, and I don’t really know why.’
‘What did you say your name was again, dear?’
‘Imogen. Imogen Cooke.’
His face falls. ‘I’m sorry, she didn’t. But then Dotty was very private.’
I feel a stab of disappointment.
‘You said she left this whole place to you?’ His eyes darken in suspicion.
‘Yes.’ I shuffle, feeling embarrassed. ‘It’s so generous of her.’
‘Well, yes. She was like that, was Dotty. I assumed she’d give all her money away to charities. That’s what she always said she’d do.’
‘She left some of it to charity.’
He lifts his chin so he can see me more clearly under his flat cap. ‘There’s no family resemblance between the two of you,’ he says briskly, no doubt taking in my dark hair and eyes, the negative image of Dorothea. ‘Dotty said she had no family.’
‘I’m not family. She was a friend. Of my mother’s mainly but also … to me. A long time ago.’
‘Right.’ A pause. ‘Do you have any plans for the house?’
‘I … no, not really. I’m, well, I’m still trying to get my head around it all. I only found out about the house this morning.’
‘Ah yes, a bit of a shock suddenly inheriting all this, I imagine.’ We fall silent and I’m not sure what else to say. ‘Anyway,’ he says eventually. ‘If you need anything, I live further down the lane, at Plato House, the other side of Mick and Sue.’
‘Okay, thank you. Nice to meet you.’
He nods without smiling and I watch as he leads Solly and Cady further up the garden, his wellies sinking intothe wet grass, and then out of the side gate almost hidden in the high stone wall. I remember that the gate leads onto the lane. I really should check to see if it has a lock.
I’m just about to go back into the house when I notice a flicker of movement between the trees at the bottom of the garden where it leads into the wood. Is someone there?
I step onto the patio, straining to see, a cold sensation creeping over me, but there is nothing there apart from the gossamer mist that hovers between the branches.
I go back into the kitchen and through an entrance that I know leads to a kind of scullery before a door opens up to Dorothea’s studio. There is another small, spiral staircase that leads to the main hallway upstairs which the servants would have used once upon a time. I wonder if this was where Dorothea’s body was found. I glance down at the tiles and notice something rust-coloured in the corner of one. I kneel down to get a better look, running my fingernail over it. It looks a lot like dried blood. I straighten up, surveying the stairs: uncarpeted and hazardous with just a thin metal rail on one side. It would be easy to stumble on a staircase like this and an image of Dorothea falling and cracking her head on these hard, unforgiving tiles shoots through my mind.
The door to her studio is closed but I notice the smudges of soot on the frame, and I hesitate before turning the handle. Dorothea’s studio had been like an emporium of wonder: of light and colour and space. Ipush the door open, immediately engulfed by the smell of burnt wood. Disappointment flares in my chest. The once beautiful glass studio is now a sad, dingy husk. The sliding doors that had opened onto the garden have been boarded up and one wall completely consumed by the fire has been replaced with more boarding. The remaining wall is intact, but the fire has eaten away most of the plaster, revealing sections of exposed brick, like bone through open flesh wounds. The whitewashed floor is warped and damaged and all the furniture and paintings and sculptures that once inhabited this studio are gone. This had been the place Dorothea had loved the most and where I’d been my happiest, and to see it like this makes my eyes smart.
‘I’m going to restore it for you, Dorothea,’ I whisper into the cold, dank air. ‘I promise.’
I make my way upstairs to Dorothea’s bedroom. I still feel like I’m trespassing and never more so than here, in this room. Everything is how she must have left it before she died. The double bed with the pink satin eiderdown is neatly made, the brush with her hair tangled in the fine needles sits next to her creams and make-up on the dressing table.
Her clothes are still hanging in the large walnut armoire, and I open the door and look through them, her scent still lingering on the fabric. On one of the shelves is a pile of neatly folded scarves and I can’t resist picking up a pink cashmere one and draping it around myshoulders. I survey myself in the full-length mirror. The pink brings out the colour in my cheeks and contrasts nicely with my dark hair. I instantly feel more polished and elegant. I finger the soft material and lift the end to my nose. I inhale deeply, instantly reminded of Dorothea, of that perfect summer and my mum. She loved pink. She wore it often. This all belongs to me now and it’s an unsettling, if not unpleasant thought. I’ve never owned anything expensive, and I can tell by the fabrics that all these clothes are of exceptional quality. I carefully part the hangers, marvelling at the clothes: jumpsuits, trousers and blouses, and I can see straight away that none of it would fit me. I’m a good five inches shorter than Dorothea was. My eye goes to a navy chunky-knit jumper with an orange, pink and cream Fair Isle print around the neckline. I can’t resist trying it on and whip off the scarf and pull the jumper over my head. The arms are slightly too long but it’s stunning with the jeans I’m wearing. It looks almost new. I decide to keep the jumper on and then I wrap the scarf back around my neck and close the wardrobe door.
Nobody has been here to clear out her things as far as I can see. She had no family left after all and the huge weight of responsibility suddenly threatens to floor me. How do I sort through seventy-odd years of someone’s life? I don’t even know where to begin.
Feeling disheartened, I go into the room next door, Dorothea’s study. She wasn’t particularly tidy but she was meticulously organized, and I’m relieved to see thebox files lined neatly on the top shelf of her bookcases and clearly labelled. Her antique walnut desk is bare. I pull down a file marked SCULPTURE IDEAS, but there’s nothing inside. I pull out another box file labelled IMPORTANT DOCUMENTS but that’s also empty. That’s weird. I look through the others, but they too are empty. I don’t understand why she’d keep the box files if she’d decided to dump their contents.
And then something on another shelf catches my eye and I start in surprise. A lidded box, different to the other files. IMOGEN is written on the front in – presumably Dorothea’s – handwriting.
I open it, half expecting it to be empty like the files, but sitting on top of a wad of papers is a short story I remember writing when I was staying here. My heart tugs at the thought of Dorothea keeping it all these years. Underneath are old yellowing newspaper clippings which I recognize from when I worked at the now defunctWiltshire Gazetteafter leaving university. Everything I’d written for the newspaper is in here. I rummage through them noticing the investigative stories I’d covered as a freelancer before joining Broadcasting House in Bristol. And then, buried right at the bottom of the box, is an old, battered silver Zippo lighter. I take it out and turn it over in my hands. It’s heavy and beautifully engraved with swirls. Underneath is a Post-it Note with three words scribbled onto it:weld sheet faster. Sellotaped next to the words is a small key. I slip it into the pocket of my jeans.
I drop the lighter back into the box and replace it onto the shelf, my mind ticking over.
