“Good morning,” I heard, or thought I heard. It could have been a dream until it was repeated.
I sat bolt upright, totally disorientated as the bed dipped with an unwanted visitor.
“Oh, erm, morning,” I said, as Maggie smiled at me.
“I made you some tea. I heard you talking, maybe on your mobile, so thought you were awake,” she said.
I frowned at her. “I was asleep…I think.”
“I’m sorry, I must have startled you then. This looks interesting,” she said picking up my book. “The Facilitator, strange name for a novel.” She scowled at the title.
I blinked a few times as she thumbed through my book. I might be allowed to crack the spine, dog-ear the corners, and flick through pages so they crease, but no one else was. I itched to reach out and take it from her. Her disregard for my literature riled me.
“The title makes sense when you read the book,” I said.
She paused mid-flick and started to read. “Oh…oh…that’s rather naughty,” she said and then chuckled.
I leaned forwards a little, conspiratorial and whispered, “It’s an erotic romance. Seriously naughty,” hoping that might put her off.
She smiled some more. “I like a good erotic romance. Perhaps I could read it when you’re done?”
Thankfully, she placed the book back on the bedside cabinet and stood. I wasn’t a bookworm as such, and I would gladly give her the book when I was done but…When. I. Was. Done.
“I’ll leave your tea there, there’s a plate of biscuits beside it,” she said, smiling as she walked to the door.
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
I hadn’t, but I was a grumpy mare in the mornings sometimes, especially when woken suddenly by a stranger sitting on the edge of my bed, rifling through my possessions. I was sure that was a slight exaggeration, but I didn’t care at that point. I picked The Facilitator back up, wondering what page she had read that had so fascinated her. I laughed. I had nearly finished with the story, and I would hand it to her. If she liked a little—or a lot in the case of The Facilitator—erotica I thought she would enjoy the story.
I reached for my tea and sipped, pondering on Maggie’s comment that she thought she’d heard me talking. Had I spoken in my sleep? If I had, what on earth had I said? I had an irrational fear, or perhaps it was rational, of speaking all those thoughts that shouldn’t leave my mouth when I wasn’t conscious enough to control them.
I could have stayed put all morning. Instead, I placed the tea back on the cabinet and slid from the bed. It was a little jump to reach the floor, but once I had, I wished I hadn’t. The wood was freezing. I stood hopping from foot to foot until I ran on tiptoes to a rug in front of the dressing table.
“Bloody hell,” I said, realising the whole room was cold. The duvet had been so sumptuous that I hadn’t noticed.
I slid my feet, one at a time, towards the curtains. This ensured my feet stayed on the rug, and the rug came with me. I pulled back the curtains, and whatever cold I felt disappeared with the beauty of the view in front of me.
An expanse of lawn, the same view from the bathroom, but that time, the grass shimmered with icy dew. In the distance, I could see deer; one raised its head and a puff of steam left its nose as the exhaled breath froze in the cold air. All I needed now was to see a majestic stag standing there, and for it to raise one leg, or hoof, or whatever it was called, like a view in an oil painting and this would be the epitome of a Scottish stately home. I would have to find out if that was, indeed, what it would be called. I’d be rather disappointed to learn it was nothing more than a large house on a venison farm.
No matter what the official term, the view was simply stunning, and I worried that I hadn’t brought the correct type of clothing. I slid towards the wardrobe and opened the oak door. I pulled out a pair of jeans, a shirt, and a woollen jumper. It might be that those items would need constant washing or Ronan could run me into town to buy more. There had to be a department store somewhere, perhaps a John Lewis, or a Harvey Nicks.
I hadn’t taken much notice of our journey up, as the majority had been spent on the motorway and the last few hours in the dark. We hadn’t passed through a town large enough for a Lidl, let alone a John Lewis. I placed the clothes on the bed and grabbed knickers, a bra, and one of only two pairs of socks. I then slid towards the bathroom.
I remembered the shock of cold water from the previous night and decided on a bath. I turned on the hot tap only, assuming it would run cold for a while then warm up. I hadn’t brought bubble bath but grabbed a bottle from a shelf close by. I hadn’t read the label but caught the last half of the word, shampoo. By that point, I’d already poured a capful under the running water. It smelled nice enough, so I let the bath fill while I stripped off.
With the cold water added to give the right temperature, I sank under the bubbles. I gripped the sides as the bath was way longer than I, my feet wouldn’t reach the end to hold me in place. The enamel was slippery, and after the second time of sliding under and waterboarding myself, I climbed out.
I grabbed a towel for my wet hair and wrapped another around my body. As I released the plug, I caught a glance of the bubble bath.
Delicious Derry’s Dog Shampoo was scrawled on the label.
“Dog shampoo?” I said, picking it up. It promised a shiny, tangle-free coat, with a built-in flea and tic treatment.
My head started to immediately itch.
I dragged the towel from my scalp, scrubbing at my hair as I did. Thankfully, my hair was fairly short and a few minutes of vigorous rubbing had it, not only standing in every direction, but mostly dry and, I hoped, flea and tic free.
I sniffed the towel. What hadn’t been an unpleasant smell in the bottle was like wet mutts when…well, wet!
I padded to the bedroom, still with the rug beneath my feet and vowed to purchase some slippers. I dressed quickly, forgoing any makeup or hairdryers and left the room.
One wrong turn later, I found the kitchen. “I forgot to bring down my cup, Maggie. I’ll grab it later and wash it up,” I said to her back.
She was mumbling at the hob. “That’s okay, dear. I’m making pancakes, but the blooming hob is playing up. Honestly, this house needs a lottery win thrown at it. Did you have hot water this morning?” she asked.
“I did, just no heating.”
She hummed. “Yes, we seem to have only one or the other. What with winter on its way, if that doesn’t get sorted, we’ll be in trouble in a month.”
“I saw a deer in the distance. The grounds look amazing,” I said.
“I’ll give Verity that credit, she did love the grounds,” she chuckled as if I should have known, one, who Verity was, and two, why she loved the grounds so much.
“Did I hear my mother’s name mentioned?” The low tone of voice didn’t need a face for me to know who had entered the room. I felt his hand on my shoulder as he passed behind me, and I smiled up at him when he took the seat beside me. “It’s bloody freezing upstairs,” he said, pulling a teapot towards him. He lifted the lid and looked in.
“Yep, I said to Lizzie, it’s either hot water or heating at the moment. Until you get the blooming boiler sorted, that is.”
Ronan took the teapot to the kettle and topped it up. He poured three mugs, sliding one towards me, while we waited for the pancakes. A few minutes or so later, Maggie placed a platter of perfectly round pancakes in the middle of the table. She added pots of jam and bowls of sugar, plates, and cutlery. My stomach rumbled at the aroma.
“We’ll save the Scottish cliché for tomorrow and have stodgy porridge,” she said, as she joined us.
“I happen to like porridge. It’s healthy,” Ronan said.
“You won’t be getting any of that healthy crap from this kitchen,” Maggie answered, stuffing a whole pancake in her mouth.
She was a little round, with ruddy cheeks and grey hair cut short, pixy style. I guessed her to be well into her seventies, or it could
be the harsh Scottish weather. Didn’t all the Scots look a little rugged? A thought popped into my mind—Ronan in a kilt.
It was decided that Ronan would take me for a walk around, first the house, and then the grounds. It proved to be an eye-opener of epic proportions!
Chapter Eight
The house tour was really interesting. Ronan knew everything there was to know, which, I guessed, was to be expected. He knew how old the wood panelling was, where it came from, who carved a door. He was able to detail the first edition books in a library that housed a layer of dust everywhere. He recounted who every single person was in the paintings and photographs. Some were immediate family, some distant. It appeared that his mother, Verity, had been the sole heir to the family home when her brother had been killed at war. Ronan was a little vague on that, as it appeared Verity was very young when her older brother had died and it had been so devastating to her parents, his grandparents, they seemed to wipe all memory of him away. Ronan remembered his grandparents and referred to them as fearsome.
There was an air of neglect about the place that seemed to sadden Ronan. He would sigh as he ran his hand over a broken piece of wooden doorframe or a torn brocade curtain. He would tut at cracked glass panels in lead divided windows.
“We need a lot of money to get this place back to its former glory. Or I need to make a decision to sell it,” he said, as we walked from room to room.
“Could you use it as a wedding or party venue, generate a little income that way?” I asked.
“We …sort of…already do that. You’ll soon see. Not that it generates an income,” he answered cryptically.
We had toured one half of the house, the more traditional and less used side, I guessed. We crossed the hall on the lower floor, and Ronan paused by a closed door.
“This is my mother’s…art collection is about the best description. She was an artist, and I’m using the word loosely. She dabbled in…Well, let’s just take a look. Are you ready?”
He looked at me as if whatever was behind that door was going to cause me to run. There was a pleading in his eyes to be calm, rational even. He opened the door and then allowed me to walk in before him. On the walls, leaning against the same walls, on easels, lying flat on the floor, in piles, balanced on chairs and sofas were huge canvases of… I had no idea, although it was colourful.
I took a step closer to one. “I’m not sure what I’m looking at,” I said, trying to find something to say other than, ‘that’s the biggest pile of crap that’s been called art since a condom on the floor next to an unmade bed’.
Ronan laughed. “You’re absolutely right. It’s abstract to the point it’s a bloody mess. Look at the ones on the wall—the photographs, not the paintings,” he said.
I walked to the other side of the room and as I approached, all I could see, as I had before, was splodges of multi-coloured paint. But then something stood out. There was something that seemed out of place, and when I looked closer, I realised it was a head with hair fanning out. I was able to track the head down to a naked body covered in paint and then I realised what I was looking at. The naked woman appeared to be rolling on the canvas, spreading the paint, covering herself. I frowned.
“That’s my mother,” Ronan said.
“Okay, it’s…interesting.” I squinted as I stared closer, to the point I was sure I’d created a monobrow.
I heard a soft chuckle. “I told you she was bohemian, hippy even. She had a whole greenhouse of cannabis out back one time. I’m surprised she was never arrested. I don’t remember the last time the woman wore fucking clothes!”
I studied his face to see if he was joking or not. “She must have. It’s flipping freezing in here!”
He shrugged his shoulders. I wasn’t sure what to say, but I was more surprised at Ronan. Perhaps I had misinterpreted the face he’d given me before we walked into the room. So his mother rolled around in paint, in the nude. It was…odd, maybe, but it wasn't the worst thing I’d heard. My husband, correction, ex-husband, ran off with a drag queen. I was sure that might outrank in oddness if there were such a list.
“Well, if that was her art, then good luck to her,” I said, with a smile. “What do you intend to do with them?”
He raised his hands and then let them fall by his side. “I have absolutely no idea. Maggie can’t bring herself to help me clear them away, or do anything with them. I was hoping you could.”
“So you only invited me to clear some naked pics of your mother?” I teased.
His cheeks reddened and my heart sunk a little. He had! “Can I be honest with you?” he asked as he perched on the arm of a chair, knocking some of the canvases over. “Richard isn’t interested; our mother embarrassed him, so he says, to the point that he stopped having anything to do with her years ago. I think she might have had some mental health issues in her life. That might have been a reason my father left, we don’t know. Anyway, I’m rambling. Honestly, Lizzie, I don’t have anyone to help me deal with this, to make decisions, and to do… I like you—we connected, even if just for that short period of time, I think. You're the perfect person to help me.”
I wasn’t sure I was, but I was flattered that he thought so. The pause, the lack of completion of one sentence hadn’t escaped me but at that moment, that man looked a little vulnerable.
I rolled my sleeves up. “There’s no better time than now. I suggest we actually pile these up in size order, then we can order picture crates. Let’s at least clear them from the room, box them up, and you can decide what to do with them another time. I don’t think you should destroy them. That’s your mother there,” I said.
It took less than half an hour to pile the paintings and remove the photographs and canvases from the wall. I wasn’t sure how old Verity was, in some images she looked lithe and toned, in others older and slightly rounded. I guessed she’d been painting for many years. It was, obviously, hard to pick out any distinguishing features as she was covered in paint.
“You know, I bet that’s quite liberating,” I said as I placed the last painting on the pile.
Ronan stood and looked around the room clapping his hands to rid them of the dust. “It was,” he replied.
“Not clearing the room. I mean that,” I said, pointing to the painting on the top of the nearest pile.
“I have no idea. I know it used to freak me out. I remember as a child coming home from school on a Friday and seeing her standing in the middle of the lawn, covered in paint, with no clothes on, obviously. I was mortified.” His eyes widened in shock as he recalled the memory.
“Do you have children?” I asked. He looked at me, clearly surprised by my change in subject.
“No, I never wanted them. I wouldn’t know how to be a parent, Lizzie, if the truth be known.”
I could relate to that. I’d decided many years ago not to have children. Or maybe I’d decided that to mask the hurt I felt when it was discovered the cheating ex was infertile, and adoption, or even fostering, was totally off the table, according to him.
“Do you have Wi-Fi here?” I asked as I pulled my mobile from my jeans pocket.
“Surprisingly, we do, although the signal can be hit and miss. You’re better off using it from the office, though.”
“You have an office?”
“No, we have an estate manager, and he has an office.”
“Is that Charlie?”
Ronan laughed, but I didn't understand the reason for his humour. “No. Charlie is Maggie’s husband. I guess he’s a handyman of sorts. Totally useless at everything, but if we need Maggie, we have no choice but to have Charlie.”
We decided on a break for lunch and made a plan to get online and order some picture crates afterwards.
We left the house and crossed a small courtyard to one of many outbuildings. I could hear dogs barking, and my skin prickled a little at the sound. They didn’t sound like the pet type of dog.
I didn’t get to meet the estate manager, as the office was empty w
hen we arrived. I winced at the mess. A desk was covered with paperwork, and an ancient computer sat beside a shotgun. The stone floor was muddy; a pair of wellies sat in one corner next to a bucket of walking sticks. While Ronan rifled around the desk, scattering paper, I looked at the photographs on the wall. A remarkably handsome man held the reins of show horses displaying coloured rosettes. He was the type of man who could grace the cover of a magazine, or a star in a movie.
“Who’s this?” I asked.
Ronan looked up. “That is the great Felix Carter-Windford. My father.”
“Gosh, you don’t look like him,” I said, then quickly closed my lips to stop any further insults erupting.
Ronan shuddered as if the thought of looking like his father repulsed him. “No, I don’t, thankfully, and whether he is actually my biological father is questionable. I think he knows the answer, and I imagine my mother knew the answer, but no one felt it necessary to tell me. Still, water under the bridge now. I was looking for the Wi-Fi code,” he said.
I walked over to the router and picked it up. On the back was a label with the code that I punched into my phone to connect to the Internet. I had no intention of trying to navigate what looked like one of Lord Sugar’s early Amstrads.
“There’s a company here that make wooden crates for fragile items, and they claim to deliver all over the UK. I think they would be perfect for the pictures. We don’t want standard cardboard boxes. You never know, in a few years, you could be sitting on art worth a fortune,” I said with a chuckle.
Ronan handed me a credit card, which I thought very trusting.
I took the card but told him, “I’ll shop around for some more prices first; we don’t want to just buy from the first place we find.” I bookmarked the page and handed back his card.
Limp Dicks & Saggy Tits Page 9
