by Kate Field
‘You’ve taken off your ring.’
I nodded. I had already noticed that Leo had moved his to his right hand.
‘It was time.’
‘Time to move on?’ When I said nothing, he sighed. ‘Don’t say it’s no business of mine. I love you as much as ever. Your business will always be mine. You will be my best woman at the wedding, won’t you? There’s no one I would rather have by my side.’
With exemplary timing, Jonas and Ava clattered into the kitchen. They drew up short at the sight of us sitting at the table, Leo still holding my hand.
‘What are you doing?’ Ava said, looking from one to the other. ‘Have you changed your mind? Are you back together?’
She tried to appear indifferent, but there was a glimmer of hope in her voice that she couldn’t disguise. It almost set off my tears again.
‘No, we’re not,’ I said, withdrawing my hand and standing up. ‘Dad has some wonderful news to share. He and Clark are getting married.’
‘Married?’ It was agony to see the emotion rippling across her face, but to know that acknowledging her distress by giving her a hug was entirely the wrong thing to do. At last she managed to settle on the familiar, surly expression. ‘I won’t be a bridesmaid. I’m not wearing a stupid frilly dress.’
‘Are you okay, Mum?’ Jonas removed one of his earphones – an extraordinary gesture of concern.
‘Of course I am. Dad has asked me to be his best woman, so it’s going to be a very special occasion, isn’t it?’
Despite my most encouraging voice, no one looked at all convinced.
It was only later, when Leo had taken the children away for their weekend visit, that I remembered I had promised to meet Owen for a dog walk an hour ago. Before I could think better of it, I dragged Dotty down the road to the village, and knocked on the door of the cottage where Owen lived. There was no answer.
Should I leave it at that? Try again later? Send a text? I wished I knew what the rules were. I wanted to show that I’d made an effort – turned up, albeit too late. Rummaging in my bag, I found a pencil and an old Post Office receipt, and scribbled a message on the back.
‘Sorry! Unexpectedly detained this morning. Complications – but all over now. Same time tomorrow instead? Mary.’
I stared at the scrap of paper, trembling in my fingers. Should I screw it up, or push it through the letterbox? I hesitated so long it was a wonder the neighbours didn’t call the police and report me for loitering. Time to move on, Leo had said. I shoved the note through the letterbox and walked away.
Chapter 10
One advantage of Ethan’s return was that while he kept an eye on Audrey I could resume my plan to visit local bookshops to drum up interest in the Alice Hornby biography. Initial sales figures had been encouraging, especially after a glowing review in The Times that had given me a secret rush of pleasure, even though my name wasn’t mentioned anywhere. While we weren’t going to make our fortune with a few dozen local sales, the more people we could interest in Alice, the more chance there was that the Alice Hornby Society would grow in number – if we had our way, one day Alice would be mentioned in the same breath as Austen and the Brontës, as one of the leading female writers of the nineteenth century. We wouldn’t be satisfied until the BBC made an adaptation of at least one of Alice’s novels.
Today I had arranged to visit the bookshop in Bickton that Andrew had mentioned at Leo’s dinner party. It turned out to be a lovely double-fronted shop, and although one of the two rooms was exclusively for children’s books – a gorgeous space with beanbags, tiny chairs, and even a wigwam filled with cushions – the other room held a good mix of fiction and non-fiction. It even passed the Hornby test: browsing the shelves while the owner was serving a customer, I spotted a copy of Alice’s first novel, The Gentleman’s Daughter, nestled amongst the classics. I moved it into a more prominent forward-facing space when no one was looking – or I thought no one was looking.
‘You must be Mary,’ Andrew’s cousin, Janey, said, appearing at my side and putting the bookshelf back into pristine order. She laughed. ‘Good attempt, but no deal. I can spot a book out of place from fifty paces. Alice Hornby stays where she is.’
‘She needs a helping hand,’ I argued, instantly warming to Janey and her sense of order, even if it did scupper my plans. ‘It’s unlucky she’s a H. By the time shoppers have browsed past Austen, Brontë, Dickens, and the rest, they’ll have no money left. I don’t suppose you could be tempted to try organising books in order of first name?’
‘It will never happen while I’m in charge.’ She looked me up and down, and I must have passed muster, because she smiled again. ‘Tea and biscuits?’
It was probably the easiest sales pitch I would face. Janey loved books, authors, and her shop, and was keen to do anything to promote all three. She was building a reputation for holding author talks and signings, and was happy to consider an event for Leo, if she enjoyed the book. I gave her the copy I had brought with me.
‘Leo Black?’ she said. ‘No wonder you’re so enthusiastic. Husband?’ She opened the back cover and inspected the photograph. It was one of my favourites: Leo had refused to have a formal photograph taken, and we had chosen a laughing shot of him in St Ives a few years ago. ‘Lucky you.’
‘Yes,’ I answered without thinking, and then my thumb caught my empty finger, reminding me of my mistake. ‘Ex-husband, actually. But I was lucky, and the enthusiasm is entirely genuine. It’s a brilliantly written, warm-hearted book, and a fascinating account of Alice’s life.’
It was one advantage of not having my name on the book as co-author; I could boast about how fabulous it was without modesty holding me back. I set off for home, glad that the meeting had gone so well, and proud of myself for acknowledging my divorced status for the first time. It was progress – a baby step, maybe, but better than nothing. And there was this thing with Owen too, whatever it was. We had walked the dogs on Sunday, and conversation had been easy and comfortable; he had the same laid-back manner as Leo, and so was familiar and new at the same time. I must have done something right, as he had made a tentative suggestion about meeting for dinner at some point. Dog walking was harmless; I could cope with dinner; it was the step beyond that worried me.
I was so busy wondering what I would do if Owen tried to kiss me – somehow the obvious answer, to kiss him back, wouldn’t take root in my mind – that I missed a couple of instructions from the Sat Nav, turned left in the wrong place and found that instead of heading towards home, I was bowling along a thin country lane with high hedges; the sort of lane that enticed you deeper into the countryside, with a series of unmarked crossroads and no sign of civilisation in any direction.
Amazingly, after five minutes of plunging so deeply into the countryside that I feared it would take general surgery to extract me, the hedges turned into garden walls, the road widened to allow more than a cart to scrape by, and a whole village appeared from nowhere. Two pubs squared off from opposite sides of the road; in a row of shops converted from terraced houses there was a butcher, with all prices marked by the pound; a newsagent; and a hairdresser’s that looked as if it had been last decorated in the sixties. Union Jack bunting drooped across every building. Most surprising of all, as I crawled through the centre, marvelling at the village that time forgot, was the sight of a bookshop at the end of the row.
I parked outside, and studied the shop properly. The inside of the windows was covered in yellowed plastic to protect the display from the sun: a bizarrely optimistic precaution for a shop in Lancashire. It made it difficult to see the books on display, but I could make out a Harry Potter and a Dan Brown, so the shop seemed to be in the right century, unlike the rest of the village. A gloriously traditional hand-painted sign above the window simply read ‘Archer’s’. This shop hadn’t come up in my internet searches; I’d be astonished if it had any internet presence at all. I doubted they could attract a crowd of more than three to any event, or that I could p
ersuade Leo to come here, but peeping inside was irresistible.
A lively jingle greeted my entrance; a proper old-fashioned bell was fixed to the door on an ornate iron spiral. The shop was bigger than it had looked from the outside, filling what would have been the front room and passage of two neighbouring cottages. Mumbled conversation and the sound of a boiling kettle drifted through from an open door in the back wall.
I noticed all this on the periphery of my vision, as my attention was caught by a wooden bookrest standing on the cluttered desk that served as a counter. The bookrest was filled with two copies of each of Alice Hornby’s four novels: the beautiful green Virago paperback editions that had been published many years ago. They were the first copies of Alice’s books I had owned, and I had adored everything about them, from the well-chosen portraits that graced the cover to the passionate stories inside.
‘They don’t write books like that anymore.’ A lady in her sixties appeared through the rear door, mug in hand, and nodded towards the book I was holding. ‘You could get a lovely matching set there. You won’t find new copies of those editions anywhere else now.’
I could well believe it. They must have been published at least twenty years ago, which was a sad reflection on how often the stock changed in this shop.
‘They are beautiful,’ I said. ‘I have battered old copies at home.’
‘Time to replace them, perhaps?’
‘I couldn’t possibly. It would be like replacing my children. I’ve lived with them so long that they fall open at my favourite passages. Buying new copies would be as bad as going through nappy changes and toilet training all over again.’ I put the book back on the bookrest and smiled. This was an opportunity I couldn’t miss. ‘Actually, I popped in here hoping to sell a book rather than buy one.’
‘Oh yes?’ The tone wasn’t encouraging, nor was the way she folded her arms, an impressive move when she still had her drink in her hand. Undaunted, I ploughed on.
‘It’s great to meet another fan of Alice Hornby. My husband, Professor Leo Black, is the country’s leading expert on her.’ I deliberately dropped the ‘ex’ and added the ‘Professor’ to try to curry favour, but there was no sign of softening. ‘Were you aware that he’s recently published her biography?’
A strange whirring noise emanated from the open doorway, and the lady glanced over her shoulder.
‘We had heard,’ she said. But before she could say more – if she’d intended to – a wheelchair zipped out of the door behind her at some speed before coming to a smart halt beside the desk. At first glance, the wheelchair appeared to contain a pile of woollen blankets, but on closer scrutiny I made out a tiny person nestled in the folds. It was an old lady – I thought – with sparse grey hair and a face so wrinkled it looked as if she’d been left in a hot bath for decades.
Surprisingly bright brown eyes stared out at me from amongst the wrinkles.
‘Careful, Bridie.’ The voice was little more than a quaver, but the gaze didn’t falter. The younger woman, Bridie, unfolded her arms at last and adjusted the heap of blankets.
‘It’s all right, Mum,’ she said. ‘Don’t get worked up.’
What had I done? I didn’t see how I could have alarmed either of them; looking ordinary was my stock-in-trade. I leaned over the desk, my hand outstretched.
‘How do you do?’ I had no idea where that sprang from. I’d never used the phrase before in my life, but it had a reassuringly non-threatening sound. Or it had to my ears – the old lady, on the other hand, shrank even further back in her chair. ‘I’m Mary Black.’
‘How’d you find us?’
‘It was sheer luck; I missed a couple of turns from the Sat Nav and ended up in this village. I’m visiting local bookshops to see if any would be interested in taking Leo’s book or for him to come for a talk or signing.’
‘Muckraking,’ the old lady muttered. It wasn’t the reaction I’d hoped for. ‘Fishing for gossip, that’s all it is. Folk should be left in peace.’
‘The book isn’t like that,’ I said, grasping from this that her objection seemed to be about the biography, rather than personal. Although as I’d written much of that book, it was personal. ‘We couldn’t be bigger fans of Alice. The book is a tribute to how wonderful she is, and what an amazing writer. There’s no muck. We spent years researching, poring over diaries and letters, and I talked to as many surviving relatives as I could find.’
‘Relatives! They know bugger all.’ The old lady snorted. ‘Servants knew what was what in those days.’
‘I know. I found the housekeeper’s journal. We even know what Alice had for dinner on her twenty-first birthday. Isn’t that incredible!’
The old lady didn’t seem to share my excitement. I thought I heard a mumble of ‘crumbs’ – which certainly wasn’t what Alice had for dinner – but it was lost under some kerfuffle with the blankets. Then, more distinctly, she said, ‘Let the dead keep their secrets,’ and with a final glare, she spun her chair around and disappeared into the back room.
‘Can I tempt you with any of our books?’ Bridie asked, as if nothing unusual had gone on. Perhaps this was the usual performance for customers. She plucked a paperback off a shelf at her side. ‘This was shortlisted for an award.’
It was a thriller that had been published at least three years ago. I hated thrillers, but it seemed a small price to pay for having agitated an old lady, so I handed over my money and escaped before she could make me feel guilty enough to buy more.
Audrey and Ethan were in their front garden when I arrived home. Audrey was sitting in a deckchair while Ethan dug up a huge azalea that had died two years ago. I wandered over to the dividing hedge in response to Audrey’s wave.
‘How was your day?’ she called. ‘Have you sold oodles of books?’
‘Maybe. One shop was interested.’
‘Weren’t you meant to be selling rather than buying?’ Ethan stopped digging and rested on his spade. Sweat darkened the hair at the edge of his face, and his T-shirt clung to his chest. He gestured at the book in my hand.
‘Oh, I couldn’t help this. I didn’t really plan to buy it,’ I gabbled. My eyes wouldn’t leave that T-shirt; I was having a Lady Chatterley moment. ‘Would you like it?’
Without waiting for an answer, I tossed the book towards him – clear evidence of my discomposure, as I would never normally have mistreated a book that way. Despite my rubbish aim, Ethan stretched and caught it in one hand. He had always excelled at sport.
‘Thanks.’ He glanced at the book. ‘Looks good. And I’m flattered that you now acknowledge I can read.’
This confused me, until I remembered an infamous argument we’d had once during which I may have flung the words ‘ignorant’ and ‘illiterate’ at him, and might possibly have suggested that he hadn’t touched a book since the rubber ones he had used for teething. It was hardly gallant of him to remember such nonsense. He smiled, evidently enjoying my embarrassment.
‘I didn’t have you down as a gardener,’ I said, attempting to change the subject.
‘No? You shouldn’t pin labels to people. You might find you can’t see past them.’
He was infuriating. Leo never spoke in riddles like this. I turned to Audrey for some sanity.
‘Isn’t he doing a marvellous job?’ she cried. ‘That poor azalea should have heard the last rites years ago. What shall we replace it with? I fancy something exotic, don’t you, Mary?’ She laughed uproariously, carrying us along with her though we’d have been hard pressed to explain the joke. ‘You’ll come back to plant it for me, if you’ve gone, won’t you?’ she asked Ethan.
‘I told you I’m not going anywhere until you’re fit. It’s only a viewing.’
‘A viewing?’ I repeated. ‘Are you buying a house?’
‘Renting. Maybe. I’m not welcome here.’
He grinned, and Audrey wagged her finger at him.
‘I adore having you here. But tell him, Mary. He’s a young man. He can’
t live with his mother. He’ll never find a nice girl if he’s hanging about here, will he?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, it never held him back in the past, did it? Girls have always sniffed him out like flies to dung.’
Ethan laughed and imitated Audrey by wagging his finger at me.
‘Are you busy tomorrow?’ he asked. ‘Why don’t you come with me to view the house?’
‘Me? Wouldn’t you rather take Audrey?’
‘It’s a marvellous idea,’ Audrey said, wiping away my objections before I could utter them. ‘You’ve done wonders with your house. And you’re constantly telling me that I should be resting.’
I was – and she was constantly telling me that she was perfectly fine, so what was she up to now? Whatever it was, I could see she wasn’t going to be swayed.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Where is this house? Somewhere ridiculously trendy, I expect, for an adoptive New Yorker?’
‘It’s on the other side of the village,’ Ethan replied. ‘Waterman’s Cottage. Do you know it?’
Know it? I loved it.
‘Waterman’s Cottage? Down by the reservoir? It’s my fortune house.’
‘Your what?’
‘My fortune house. The house I’d buy if I won or earned a fortune.’
Ethan shook his head, laughing.
‘Are you really telling me that if money was no object, you’d buy a small house in the village where you’ve lived your whole life? When you could have the world?’
‘My life is here. This is my world.’
Ethan smiled, but it was a smile I couldn’t identify.
‘I think it’s time we made your world a little bigger.’
Chapter 11
Waterman’s Cottage was perched on its own at the edge of the embankment that led across one end of the Stoneybrook Reservoir, and had spectacular views across the water. Only ramblers and dog-walkers ever went past, and the only neighbours were ducks, geese, herons, and the deer that roamed the woods on either side of the reservoir.
