by Kate Forster
Henry looked at her in a slightly panicked fashion.
‘Jokes,’ she said feeling like a predator, as she reinserted the key and turned it. ‘Sorry, inappropriate jokes. The key works,’ she said, opening the door.
A pigeon flew out above them.
Clara looked up at where the roof was supposed to be and saw clear blue skies.
‘It’s a hole,’ she said slowly. ‘A big, gaping hole.
‘A complete shithole,’ said Henry, looking around him. With that, Clara burst into loud sobs, not even soothed by Henry’s hugs and her face fitting perfectly into the curve of his neck.
6
There was no doubt the cottage was a disaster. The lack of furniture was one issue, as the images in the photos had clearly been styled to resemble a scene out of a Beatrix Potter drawing with a fire in the grate and pretty rugs and curtains, which were nowhere in sight now.
‘I should sue them for not disclosing the true condition,’ Clara said after she had wiped her face with her sleeve.
‘Did you look at it before you bought it?’ Henry asked.
Clara paused. ‘No, I bought it on a whim. A sad, wine-induced whim.’
Henry raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Fair enough.’ He shrugged and she respected that he didn’t want to know the ins and outs of her sad life choices and that he wanted to keep proper boundaries between them, even after she had snotted on his shoulder.
The hole in the thatching was large and there was mud on the floor, and some sort of animal droppings.
‘Fox, most likely,’ said Henry as he kicked it.
‘They said it was furnished,’ Clara stated as she looked at the large dust sheets creating unattractive shapes in the living room.
She pulled one back to reveal a wooden chair with a high back.
‘God, sitting in that for too long would be a punishment,’ she said.
Henry laughed as she walked into the tiny kitchen.
‘I think the hole in the roof isn’t that old, and the kitchen is okay,’ Henry said.
But all Clara saw was dust as thick as icing on the table, and some odd and unmatched coloured wooden chairs stacked against the wall.
There was an old refrigerator and an Aga.
‘I always wanted one of those stoves,’ she said, trying to rustle some cheer about it all.
Henry had opened the back door and was looking outside. ‘Wow,’ he said.
‘Do I want to know?’ Clara asked. ‘I don’t think I can bear any more disappointment.’
‘No, it’s good.’ Henry turned and smiled at her and her heart skipped a beat.
Gosh, he was handsome.
She walked to his side, looked outside and gasped.
Clara had never noticed trees before but the tree at the back of the cottage was spectacular. Tall, with a wide trunk and thick glossy leaves, it spread across the back of the property with perfect branches to climb on, some dipping along the ground and up again.
‘Oh, now that almost makes it worth it,’ said Clara staring in awe at the grand tree.
‘That is the most perfect tree I have ever seen,’ said Henry. ‘A solid ten out of ten.’
‘Do you usually rate trees?’ Clara asked.
‘No but this one requires a score, don’t you think?’
Pansy walked around the side of the house, carrying a bunch of dandelions.
‘It’s perfect for climbing,’ said Henry and Clara glanced at him.
His jawline under his beard was strong and she couldn’t help comparing it to Piles and his lack of chin.
‘How long have you had your beard for?’ she heard herself asking. Oh shit, Clara, use your mental filter. That was a boundary-crossing question and also it was weird. It was the sort of question you asked someone while you lay in their arms after passionate sex, not standing in your derelict cottage rating trees.
‘Since I was twenty-five, so ten years,’ he said, not seemingly bothered by her question.
‘I’d like to grow a beard,’ she said. Oh my God, Clara. Stop speaking, never speak again.
‘Really?’ Henry was looking at her as though she was an alien.
‘I mean, if I could… They look fun.’
STOP. TALKING.
Thankfully Pansy was coming towards them.
‘So, what’s the dealio?’ she asked them.
‘Pardon?’ asked Clara. This little girl wasn’t what she thought a six-year-old should be.
‘The house, are we working on it, Dad, or going to look at the Dale house?’ Pansy had her hands on her hips again and was looking at them to make a decision.
Henry looked at Clara. ‘I should get you a price for the roof then.’
Clara walked back into the kitchen. ‘I need more than the roof; I need it all done. And I have no idea what I’m doing or what tradesmen to get and honestly, this is all a bit of a disaster.’
Henry put his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth in his work boots.
‘I can do it all but it would be expensive.’
‘I have money,’ said Clara quickly. She didn’t know why she trusted him but she did, even if his kid was like a mafia boss.
‘I can make it liveable to start with and then you can decide what needs doing in what order,’ he said.
Clara thought for a moment. She didn’t have another choice or anywhere else to go. She had made a decision and she had to deal with it.
‘Okay, let’s start with the roof and go from there.’
Pansy was looking at each of them as they spoke.
‘You’d better let Don Dale know we won’t be coming,’ she said to her father.
‘Yes, I am aware of the procedure, Forewoman Pansy.’
Clara tried not to laugh at the disdain on the girl’s face.
Henry cleared his throat and Clara looked at him.
‘When Pansy and I do a job, I usually stay on the land or as close as possible. That way it’s easy for me to take the van off the car and we can settle here for however long it takes. We don’t get in the way; we’re self-sufficient.’
‘Oh wow, you really do live in it. Well, that’s fine. Park wherever you want. I might need to come and borrow a cup of sugar, so it would be wonderful to have neighbours.’
She knew she was talking too much again. Her mother used to say it was because she was nervous and needed to fill the space. Piles had said it was overcompensating for not thinking she was interesting enough. She wondered now if he had thought she was uninteresting. Perhaps he had said it as a way to try and get her to look at herself and what she talked about. Was she boring? Most people thought they were interesting and funny, but not everyone was. Piles was the perfect example of this.
‘I will get you a quote to be sure you want to move ahead though,’ said Henry. ‘I think you will need the entire roof to be replaced.’
Clara sighed. ‘I guess I’d better look at the rest of the place. Will you do the tour with me? In case I decide to throw it all in and set fire to the lot?’
Henry laughed. ‘Don’t you dare. This place is going to be gorgeous. You can come up from London and spend weekends here and get a dog and live happily ever after.’
Clara looked around the kitchen.
‘It’s my forever home. I threw it all in, back in London, and dumped the boyfriend,’ she said, refusing to let Piles win that one. ‘I guess I have to make it work because I don’t have anything or anyone else.’
‘You have us,’ said Pansy. Clara looked down at the child who pulled a dandelion from behind her back and handed it to Clara. ‘Blow on it and make a wish.’
So Clara closed her eyes and blew on the dandelion and made her wish.
7
That afternoon the moving van rolled up outside the cottage and two men jumped down.
‘This it, love?’ one of the men with a single tooth asked Clara.
‘Oh God, my stuff is here,’ she said
to Henry.
‘Tell them to put it all in the living room and I’ll push the furniture back and you can unpack as you need. Did you label the boxes?’ he asked Clara, who frowned.
‘No, I was in a rush,’ she tried to explain. Why hadn’t she labelled the boxes? She knew the answer. Because she was furious when she packed, tipping entire kitchen drawers into boxes with entire drawers of underwear.
She had books mixed with bathroom products, which had probably leaked knowing her luck, and she had artwork wrapped in floor rugs and tea towels.
It was Clara Maxwell at her worst and she knew it but how could she explain to Henry and these moving men that she had cried as she packed every box. Cried for her friendship with Judy and the loss of Giles and their dreams. Most of all she had cried with the shame of being the one they probably laughed at when they were in bed together rubbing feet.
Clara the loser, who sent her boyfriend to a golf trip with a container of cottage pie. God, she was so stupid, she thought now as she watched the men try and get her bed frame upstairs.
They contorted themselves like they were in Cirque du Soleil but they simply couldn’t get the sleigh bed up the tiny staircase.
‘Leave it outside,’ said Clara, aware this was costing her by the hour. ‘It won’t fit in the living room.’
She loved that bed so much. She had bought it at an antique auction, and the intricate wood embellishment made her happy, even though Giles said it was cumbersome.
His use of the word had made her angry. He was cumbersome, she thought unkindly, with his portly stomach and ladylike hips, which she knew he hated. She had never mentioned his womanly shape but now, filled with bitter thoughts, she wished she had said something to him.
The men took the mattress upstairs. Clara followed them and saw them throw it onto the floor and dust rose up like a fog descending.
‘The fog of doom,’ she said to herself.
‘All okay?’ asked Henry from behind her.
‘Besides me sleeping in a room that looks like I’m in workhouse in a Charles Dickens novel, it’s peachy,’ she said, trying to keep the quiver from her voice.
Since the discovery of the betrayal she had felt as though the world was off centre. Now she felt as though it was spinning into an abyss and she would soon meet a certain death.
‘I think I’m going to faint,’ she said but then she realised she had never fainted before, so she wasn’t sure if this was what it felt like but whatever it was, it made the room spin.
She was suddenly in Henry’s arms and he laid her down on the mattress.
‘It’s okay, you’re okay,’ he said.
‘Did I faint?’ she asked.
‘I think you had an NFE,’ he said with a smile, kneeling on the floor next to her.
‘Oh my God, what is that?’ Was she sick?
‘A near-fainting experience,’ said Henry.
Clara closed her eyes. ‘I am a pathetic woman. I’m Miss Havisham, living in my decrepit home, with dust and cobwebs as my aesthetic.’
Henry laughed. ‘No, you’re tired, you probably haven’t eaten and you need some breathing space, preferably without the dust.’
Clara sat up on the mattress, aware she was being comforted by a virtual stranger on his knees at her bedside. Her life was ridiculous.
Henry looked at her closely as he spoke, as though instructing a child. ‘Go into the village. There’s a nice little bakery there. Get some food and take a moment and I will sort the movers, okay?’
She nodded, grateful for someone else to have taken charge for a moment.
‘Okay, I will. If you don’t mind?’
Henry shook his head. ‘It’s fine, I promise.’
*
Clara drove into town to buy some supplies and try and take stock of her situation. Thankfully there was power and water at the cottage but that was it and she needed to clean the place. Henry was at the cottage with Pansy, working our his quote for the roof, and she had asked him to write a list of what else he thought needed to be done if the place was his.
She knew she should be excited but she felt sick at the thought of what was to come.
There was a small shop with overpriced cleaning items, which she begrudgingly bought as she heard her stomach rumble. She needed something to eat and she saw the drab bakery sign above a shop across the road.
Refusing to pay inflated prices at the shop run by a woman with a sour face, she put the cleaning supplies into the car and walked up to the bakery.
A bell over the door rang, signalling her arrival, and an older woman came to the counter and smiled. ‘Hello, dear, welcome to the Merryknowe Bakery and Tearooms. How can I help you? Would you like a cup of tea and something to eat?’
Clara looked around at the tearoom, which was empty except for an old woman who was looking at her like she had done something terrible and was about to be found out.
She had done something terrible. She’d bought that stupid cottage. Perhaps she would sit down and eat, as she felt like she could murder a cup of tea.
‘That would be lovely, thank you,’ she said, matching the woman’s formality. The woman had on a lot of makeup and had her blonde hair carefully set as though she had just been at the hairdresser. Her skin was brown – fake tanned brown – and she had rings on nearly every finger, and a white and silver knitted top with ropes of gold chains around her neck.
‘Rachel, come and see to this young lady and give her the best table,’ the woman called out into a doorway, presumably where the kitchen was.
‘That’s fine, I’ll take any table,’ said Clara.
A mousy girl came out of the back of the shop. She was the antithesis of the woman at the counter. Pale, in a dull dress and laced-up shoes and no makeup at all – but what made Clara gasp was the yellowing bruise on her face.
‘Hello, welcome to the Merryknowe Tearooms,’ said the young girl, then walked Clara to the corner table by the window.
‘This is my daughter Rachel – she will take care of you. I have to go to see Mrs Crawford at the post office and general store.’
Mrs Crawford must be the sour-faced woman who had just sold her an overpriced dustpan and brush.
The woman left as Rachel came back with a tall black linen-covered menu that looked like it should be in Claridge’s but when Clara opened it, there was only a small selection of items printed onto the paper, which was fastened inside with sticky tape.
‘What do you recommend?’ asked Clara, noticing her bitten nails, but her eyes were drawn back to the bruise.
Probably a boyfriend did it, she thought angrily.
‘Are you a sweet or savoury person?’ the girl asked in a small voice.
Clara laughed. ‘A bit of both, depends on which way the wind is blowing.’
The girl didn’t smile. ‘I can bring you some pinwheel sandwiches and a plate of iced fancies for afterwards?’
Clara paused. ‘I think something hot would be nice, what sort of pies do you have?’
Rachel looked around as though someone was listening. ‘I have a chicken and leek pie out the back you might like. It’s a new recipe.’
‘Oh delicious, perfect. And I will take an eclair afterwards.’
The girl disappeared and Clara checked her phone. Nothing from Piles or Judy. Traitorous bastards.
‘Hello.’ Clara heard a voice and realised it was the old woman behind her.
‘Good morning,’ said Clara with a smile and went back to her phone.
‘Come and sit with me,’ the woman said and Clara sighed. Old people and children loved her; it was just the ones aged in between who broke her heart.
‘Oh, I don’t want to intrude,’ said Clara politely.
‘Intrude on what, my dear? My general decaying? That will happen whether you are here or not. I would like the company.’ It was as though the woman had decreed that she wanted Clara’s company and she didn’t have a choice in the matter. Clara found herself standing up and picking up her bag.
She moved to the woman’s table and put her hand out. ‘Clara Maxwell. New to Merryknowe. Regretful owner of the Acorn Cottage, just near the church.’
The old woman’s eyes narrowed as she spoke and seemed to turn darker as she looked at Clara closely.
‘Tassie McIver. Former schoolteacher when the village still had a church and now the oldest resident of Merryknowe. I live across the road in the house with the geraniums in the window boxes.’
Tassie put her hand in Clara’s and she was surprised at how strong the grip was for such a tiny hand. She had pale pink hair, pink lipstick and pink nails and eyes as dark as ebony.
The old woman spoke in a frail voice. ‘Acorn Cottage. I knew the woman who lived there. Sheila Batt. Like name, like person. She was an old bat. Died in her bed upstairs. I am surprised they didn’t find her hanging from the eaves by her toes.’
Clara made a face of horror but Tassie shrugged. ‘We all have to go sometime. Better to be in your bed than on the toilet like Elvis.’
Clara burst out laughing as Rachel brought over the tea and then the pie, which smelled like heaven. Clara cut it open and the creamy filling oozed onto the plate a little, then she tasted the first bite.
‘Best pie in the area,’ said Tassie. ‘Unfortunately no one knows about them.’
Clara had to agree that it was truly the best pie she had ever eaten. She demolished it quickly, wishing there was more of it on the plate.
Tassie leaned over the table and whispered, ‘She’s a sad thing, that girl. Her mother is something else. Breaks my heart to watch the way she’s treated.’
Clara nodded as she watched the girl moving about behind the bakery counter. She was anxious and nervous. Clara knew those behaviours; she had seen them in her own mother before they left Clara’s father. Constantly trying to be ahead of the criticism, constantly trying to make improvements to the minutiae of life. Clara wanted to tell her that it would never be perfect enough for who she was trying to please.
She tried to guess the girl’s age. She looked like she was in her early twenties but dressed like she was seventy and she sighed as though she was about to take her last breath.
