by Beth Corby
‘Ooh!’ says Alec, stumbling over some boxes in his hurry to get to it. Who would have thought a manky old pram could make us so happy?
I climb over a chest and unpin a note from its hood: ‘For Hannah – The Holy Grail!’
‘He knew it would be difficult,’ I say, holding it up for Alec to see.
‘Hmm,’ he agrees, assessing the pram and its all-important wheels. ‘Let’s get it downstairs.’
We carry the pram down into the hall, then roll it out onto the terrace. In the proper light of day it looks even more raggedy than in the attic. In fact, it’s no use for anything but a go-kart – there’s certainly no way you’d put a baby in there.
‘Were we supposed to find it sooner?’ I ask.
‘No, I reckon he’d have liked the thought of us struggling for a bit so he could swoop in and save the day. But I can’t help wondering how long he had to wait on the stairs for Mrs Crumpton to walk by.’
‘Hopefully ages!’ I say, rubbing my bum, which is still tingling with pins and needles.
Alec snorts and leaves me on the terrace massaging myself while he goes to unearth some tools and collect our other finds.
I take a seat on a stone bench under one of the windows and close my eyes. The sun bakes my eyelids and as I start to relax, I realise I’m actually enjoying myself. The tasks are fun, and spending time with Mrs Crumpton and Alec isn’t so bad now that Mrs Crumpton has decided she likes me and Alec has managed to put aside (most of) the chips he’s been carting about on his shoulders since he met me. And I’m really enjoying staying here – the house is gorgeous. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever loved being anywhere as much as this, and it’s all because of Uncle Donald.
I feel a shadow pass over me, and I open my eyes to find Alec standing in my sun. With planks tucked under one arm and holding a tool box with his other, he’s the picture of a hunky handyman. I shade my eyes, and he gives me a hard look.
‘You’re not leaving me to do all the work, you know.’
I grin as if that had been my intention, though it wasn’t really, and heave myself up. I come over to where he’s laying everything out and sit cross-legged on the warm paving stones beside him. He takes out a cordless drill and pulls the trigger, revving its motor – boys!
‘Ever used one of these?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I say, shaking my head.
‘OK. Lesson one: how to use a drill.’ He hands it to me and using the stub of a pencil, he marks a cross where I should drill a hole. I look at him uncertainly. ‘Give it a go,’ he says. I put the drill on the mark, gently depress the trigger and skitter straight off the piece of wood, leaving a deep scratch.
He smiles, but not unkindly. ‘Try again, but this time keep your weight over it.’ I put the drill back on the mark and he casually reaches over to pull me into position, but as his fingers touch my bare arm it’s as if hot ice courses through me. My eyes snap to his and he yanks his hand away like he’s been shocked. Even though he’s no longer touching me, my heart leaps about erratically. I try not to blush, but it’s no use.
‘The key is to pull the trigger slowly while holding the wood still with your other hand.’ He’s pretending nothing happened, but his eyes are still locked onto mine.
‘OK,’ I say, discomfited.
‘Carefully,’ he warns, and looking down, I focus on drilling a neat hole. ‘That’s better,’ he says, and as he examines the hole, I slowly let out my breath, trying to hide the fact that I’ve been holding it.
I sit back as he drills the remaining holes. There’s obviously some kind of attraction lurking beneath the surface, on my part at least, but Alec? Rude, suspicious, determined to think the worst of me . . . I mean, he struggles to remain civil half the time, and even now he’s looking irritated! What am I thinking? Of course he doesn’t fancy me.
‘Hannah?’ he asks, breaking into my thoughts. ‘Did you get that?’ He sounds annoyed. I look down at the drill now sporting a screwdriver head and realise I’ve missed something.
‘No, sorry,’ I say, pushing away all my disquieting thoughts, forcing myself to focus.
Over the next few hours we cut planks, screw the frame together, soak the large bolt in oil and deconstruct the pram, laying out the parts across the terrace and making a pile of scrap, while always keeping a careful distance from each other. Alec’s been a bit abrupt, but after adding the wheels and axles, the go-kart trundles in a satisfyingly straight line across the terrace, and I can’t help thinking we’ve done well.
‘I’m not sure the wheels will stay on, but it looks the part,’ he says.
‘Great – give me confidence, why don’t you?’ I scoff, pleased we’re able to joke again, though I have to admit it feels a bit forced.
‘It’s a go-kart. What do you expect?’ He pokes his finger in the cup of oil to see if the bolt has loosened up.
‘Not to die, for a start! Perhaps you should do the gentlemanly thing and do a test-run.’
‘No way!’ he says, giving me a satisfied grin. ‘We haven’t built it for my weight. Besides, I’m sure that goes against Donald’s wishes.’
‘You’re just saying that because you don’t fancy risking getting on it yourself.’
‘You’re probably right,’ he admits. ‘OK, let’s get down to business. If we’re quick, we can finish it tonight, and then you can race it in the morning.’
‘Great,’ I say. Though, if I’m honest, I’d rather have a glass of wine.
It’s been an odd evening. We finished the go-kart and had dinner, but after clearing up and discussing our plans for tomorrow, Alec became monosyllabic and I got the impression he wanted some time alone. Not sure what else to do, I said I’d have an early night and came up to my room. I read for a while, but then finally taking my courage in my hands I took out a pen and a pad and sat down at the beautiful writing desk. I wrote for what must have been well over an hour, surprised to find myself more inspired from the last few days than I have been in years. But now it’s late, I’m lying in bed and, even though I didn’t get much sleep last night, I’m not at all tired.
If I was at home, I’d make some hot chocolate, but Mrs Crumpton doesn’t strike me as a hot chocolate kind of person. She might have some cocoa for baking, though. I’m willing to give that a go. I grab my dressing gown and pad downstairs, hoping not to disturb Alec, but I needn’t have worried – there’s a light under the study door and, tiptoeing over, I can just make out someone sniffing inside. I hesitate, then tap gently on the door.
‘Mm hmm,’ he says, and I push it open. Alec’s sitting at Donald’s desk with red-rimmed eyes and there’s a bottle of whisky and an almost-empty tumbler in front of him. My heart goes out to him, but I’m not sure if my being here is just going to make things worse.
‘I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to intrude – I saw the light on. Do you want company, or would you prefer to be left alone?’ I smile sympathetically.
Alec wipes his eyes and tries to smile back. ‘No, you’re all right.’ He indicates the empty seat in front of him and I tiptoe in and sit down, feeling oddly formal across the desk from him. ‘Can’t you sleep?’ he asks.
I shake my head, but I’m more concerned about him. ‘Is it Donald?’ I ask, and he dips his head in acknowledgement.
I hesitate, remembering Grandma Betty’s assessment of Alec and Donald’s relationship. Were they more than employer and employee? I really don’t know. I bite my lip, wondering if it would be better to have it out in the open. At least then he could talk about it. I stare down at my hands. ‘It must be hard losing Donald, what with him being your employer and friend, and living with him and everything . . .’ I hesitate, unsure whether to continue. ‘. . . and you don’t have to tell me . . . and it may not be the case, but I was just wondering if . . . if he was more than that to you?’
My eyes dart to his, wondering if I’ve guessed correctly, but the hurt in his red-rimmed eyes has morphed into anger and incredulity, and I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.
/>
‘You think I don’t have the right to be this upset unless we were . . . lovers, or something?!’ he asks, his voice dangerously quiet.
‘No! That’s not what I—’
‘If we weren’t, you think I should maintain a stiff upper lip. Is that it?’ I shake my head, wishing I could disappear into the floor. ‘I have the right to mourn a friend! A good friend! A decent and honourable man!’
‘I know that, I just thought that if you needed—’
‘I don’t,’ says Alec firmly. He takes a gulp of whisky and shakes his head at me. ‘And I certainly don’t need anyone to judge!’
‘I wasn’t, I—’
‘You were just suggesting that if I wasn’t his lover then I’m over-reacting,’ he says, getting to his feet. ‘Well, you can go to hell,’ he says, his voice icy. He turns on his heels and walks out, slamming the door behind him, leaving both it and me reverberating. I sit very still, my mind frantically going over what I just said. Maybe I was a little clumsy, but I didn’t mean it like that.
Still shocked, I reach for his whisky and take a sip. It scours my insides and I wince. So I guess they weren’t lovers, then. But why did I even ask, and why does it matter to me, anyway? I mean, I know my reactions to him over the last couple of days have been a bit erratic, but it’s not like I’m actually interested in him in that way.
I tuck my feet up under myself and finish the last sip, holding it in my mouth for a moment so it burns my tongue. The door opens behind me, and I swallow. I don’t need to turn around to know it’s Alec. He sits down, this time in one of the fireside armchairs, and I pick up his empty glass, grab a second as well as the bottle, and sit in the chair opposite him. He pushes his hands through his hair and I pour us both a drink. As I hand him his, he finally meets my eyes, and in his I read both a wariness and an entreaty for me to understand.
‘You asked me earlier if my parents were rich,’ he says.
I nod, grappling to keep up with this unexpected opener.
‘Yes, they were rich, and their parents before them, and their parents etc., on and on into the dim and distant past.’ Alec gives me a long look. ‘Let’s just say, they’re not like me. They’re military.’
I picture stuck-up generals and people barking orders and pull a face, but hastily rearrange it into what I hope is an expression of polite interest.
‘No, you’re right to look like that. Grandfather thought all his offspring should go into the army. My father and his brothers thought the same, so my cousins and I were all packed off to military training as soon as we finished university. As it turns out, everyone else was officer material and I wasn’t.’ That explains some of his prickliness. ‘I couldn’t stand it and . . . well . . . I dropped out.’ He glances defiantly at me, daring me to comment, and I force my face to remain neutral. He downs what’s left in his glass, and pours himself another generous measure. ‘My family, feeling I’d ruined our reputation for military excellence, disowned me. I left home and tried to get a decent job, but without references no one would touch me. So I did some menial jobs: labourer, shelf stacker and, well . . . I ended up living in a squat.’ He glances at me to gauge my reaction, but I have only sympathy. ‘It wasn’t all bad,’ he adds defensively. ‘I learnt to play the guitar so I could busk – just a few chords, nothing special.’ I swirl my glass and take a sip.
‘Then one day, my grandmother – she was wonderful by the way – came and found me. She pulled up outside the squat in her chauffeur-driven Jaguar, and took me out to lunch. While we were eating, she pulled out a cutting from one of her society magazines and handed it to me. It was in The Lady, I think, and it gave the job details for a personal assistant’s post in the country serving an old bachelor. “Interesting people only need apply”, it said. I remember that,’ he says, and even though he’s looking down I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘She told me I was exactly the right person for the job. She was surprisingly insistent about that, and she made me promise I’d go. She then took me to a barber, bought me a suit and dropped me off at the train station with money for a ticket. She told me to get on with my life and make myself proud. Anyway, that’s how I came to work for Donald.’
The whisky sits in my stomach, warming my body, and my eyes are starting to feel pleasantly bleary. ‘What happened when you got here?’ I ask, taking another sip.
‘Donald took one look at me, said “My God!”, and sent all the other applicants away. I was exhausted and not very clean under my suit, so he sent me upstairs for a hot bath and told me to come back when I’d eaten something. I promptly went down with the flu and Mrs Crumpton had to look after me for a few days before he could even interview me. She’s had a soft spot for me, ever since.’
I stifle a giggle. ‘You’d never know. How long ago was this?’
‘I was twenty-one, so nearly eight years ago. We got very used to each other.’
‘You were good friends,’ I say, finally understanding.
‘Practically family.’ His voice cracks.
I reach out to him, letting my fingers touch his, and there’s a tingle of static. Alec looks down at my hand, then back at me and smiles slowly. I’m close enough to see the silvery trace of a small scar on his upper lip, which I’ve never noticed before. I almost want to reach out and touch it.
‘I think you should go to bed,’ he says, retrieving his hand from mine. ‘I expect you’ll sleep now,’ he says, nodding at my empty tumbler.
My eyes hold his for just a second.
‘Good night, Hannah,’ he says and, draining his glass, he gets up and leaves the room without looking back.
Chapter 11
I didn’t sleep well. I kept picturing a precipitous mountain littered with jagged rocks, and me speeding through them on a disintegrating moth-eaten plank. I woke up tired and achy, and at breakfast I had to struggle to eat any of my scrambled eggs on toast, but since neither Alec nor I knew what to say to each other, chewing seemed the easiest option. Now that we’re driving up the lane to Tor Hill with the go-kart wedged firmly in the back, I’m not sure the scrambled eggs were a good idea.
Alec gestures to a flat area of grass and I park. As he gets out, I gaze up at Tor Hill. Thankfully it doesn’t look too enormous – we’re probably talking a five-minute yomp to the top. It’s also neat, with even slopes and no jagged rocks, just a circular stone building at its top. Around its base is a flat area of grass, then a dry stone wall, which seems perilously close and unyielding to my self-preserving eye.
I go around to where Alec is wrestling the go-kart out of the back seat, and stand uselessly beside him, examining the cycle helmet Mrs Crumpton handed me at breakfast. She borrowed it from her neighbour and though I can tell Alec doesn’t approve of it, I guess Mrs Crumpton must be warming to me. Or, at the very least, doesn’t want me to sustain a major head injury. Which is nice of her.
Finally freeing the go-kart, Alec gives the helmet a disparaging look and strides off. I scuttle after him, putting on the helmet, noting that as we approach the hill it looks a lot steeper, while the go-kart in Alec’s arms seems more rickety.
Alec puts the go-kart down in front of me and folds his arms. ‘Donald wouldn’t have worn safety gear,’ he says, as if he hadn’t already made his feelings abundantly clear.
I look him in the eye, too nervous to mince words. ‘Either I go with the helmet, or you go without – your choice.’
‘Helmet stays,’ he agrees, holding up his hands. ‘Are you sure you don’t want safety goggles and steel-toed boots, too?’ he asks, raising an eyebrow.
I do my best to look dangerous. ‘If I had steel-toed boots, you’d need shin pads.’
He flashes me a grin. ‘Fair enough! Ready for your first run?’ and with him pulling the go-kart up the hill, I follow, still fiddling with the helmet straps. I’m relieved when he stops a third of the way up.
‘Try from here. That way you can get a feel for the steering,’ he suggests.
It doesn’t look that far to t
he bottom. I lower myself onto the go-kart while Alec holds it steady, and it creaks alarmingly. I look up in panic.
‘I told you it wouldn’t take my weight,’ he says smugly.
‘Are you sure it will take mine?’
‘There’s only one way to find out.’
Digging my heels into the grass, I picture the entire thing falling apart on the way down, and my breaths come faster.
Alec sighs. ‘Kids have been doing this forever. What’s the worst that can happen?’
‘I crack my head open and die?’ I suggest, my voice unnaturally high.
‘Not going to happen: helmet,’ he says, rapping the top of it.
I still don’t lift my heels. The slope stretches out in front of me, and I feel like it’s got steeper in the last few minutes. The steering rope is rough in my hands and I’m wishing I’d brought gloves – and given that the planks are already digging into my bottom, perhaps a cushion, too.
Alec crouches down beside me. ‘Look, the most dangerous element of go-karting is cars.’ He shades his eyes and peers around like a mariner. ‘No cars. No sheep. Not even a dog walker.’
I frown at him and he sighs impatiently, making me feel pathetic. I take a deep breath and lift my heels.
To begin with, the kart moves slowly, then gravity remembers what it’s doing, and I gather speed. The wheels turn too freely. The air swooshes past my face, and the bottom of the hill rushes up to meet me. I press my feet into the plank in front of me, but nothing happens.
‘Turn!’ Alec yells from behind me.
The gradient lessens, but the dry stone wall is still hurtling towards me incredibly fast. Shit!
‘Turn!’ yells Alec again, and my mind finally kicks into gear. I yank the rope, slewing the cart around, but too roughly. I lose my footing on the front plank, fall sideways, and cling to the rope, jerking the kart after me. As I roll, the go-kart follows, and as I come to an abrupt halt it smacks me in the helmet.
