Alerted by Donnelley, no doubt, Jeremy presented the paperwork from Damon’s purchase and with it a detailed map showing its location nearer to Llantysilio village. He had aerial photos, too, circling with a capped ballpoint a solitary house positioned on a slight diagonal between two forested hills.
“That’s it,” he said. “Your very own Welsh estate.”
I looked on, hoping he would notice my confusion.
“I presumed it was a farm,” I offered. “The trees make it look more like a retreat in the woods than a place for growing crops.”
“Oh, it was a farm,” Jeremy said quickly. “Well, a long time ago, but still…”
“And the family?” I asked.
“The last ones went away south when they grew too old to tend the place. They sold up to some famous Argie poet in the early eighties, but she sped off home to Buenos Aires when the South Atlantic War made her somewhat of a pariah up here.”
“Nobody else lived there since?”
“A few, but mostly it went vacant for quite a time—decades, actually.”
“We never knew Damon had this place,” I mumbled. “Did he spend a lot of time there?”
Jeremy replied with a slow shake of his head.
“He came ‘round first about three years ago, asking after available properties, but the agent didn’t have anything that suited. When this parcel came open again a year ago last spring, they sent notice. We made arrangements with the owner—an oral surgeon in Sheffield—and Damon flew up. He bought it next day and that was that.”
I had the chronology, at least, but not the reason.
“He moved from Spain?”
“Not full time,” Jeremy replied. “He had the carpenters do a proper renovation, and you’ll see it’s been upgraded to modern standards rather well, but he was in and out over the past year.”
“Did he keep it for a vacation home?”
“Not really, no. After the renovation, Damon sort of disappeared for a while. He left instructions to contact him in the event anyone asked after the property and that was about it.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why go to those lengths if he didn’t intend to live there?”
“We assumed it was for investment purposes,” Jeremy replied. “They come up from London now and again looking for a nice spot without Tube stations and sirens—nouveau twits from Hampstead or Knightsbridge with Jags in the car park and sailing yachts down on the Channel.”
“My brother was nothing like that, Mr. Collingwood.”
“No indeed,” Jeremy replied, “and it was clear he had no interest in selling after all.”
I smiled and nodded at the idea. Nothing in Jeremy’s description would have made sense only a day or two earlier, but that was before Vienne and I saw Damon’s will. Something must’ve changed in his life to make him consider investment properties and deposit boxes full of gold and silver. Had a colleague at the university, perhaps, or an acquaintance who watches real estate trends put him onto the idea? At once, I imagined Vienne was going through a similar exercise that very moment in southern Spain and shaking her head sadly as the cleaners finished up in Damon’s apartment. Jeremy leaned on his elbows, lowering his voice considerably as he spoke.
“If I might ask, Mr. Morgan, did you intend to sell off the property straight away or wait a while?”
I couldn’t decide if the question was asked with specific intent or if he was only curious. The fees he charged for representing Damon’s interests weren’t modest but neither were they excessive, if that’s where he was going. The suddenly hushed tone seemed odd, too, as if to suggest my answer was best kept between us.
“I’d like to see it, first,” I replied. “This is all new to me, so I’d rather not make decisions until I understand how and why my brother came to be here in the first place.”
“Yes, of course,” Jeremy said, but it was clear he hoped for something more definitive. I waited another moment, looking over the paperwork to buy time while I considered my options.
“You said Damon left suddenly, Mr. Collingwood, but you’re sure there was no particular reason?”
“I couldn’t say with certainty. We were given to understand his work duties would keep him on the move for some time, but…”
“Why do you think he left in a hurry?”
Jeremy looked through the window for a moment and I saw at once the conversation had taken him to an uncomfortable place.
“Mr. Collingwood?”
He sipped at his coffee and held up a hand the way people do to insulate themselves from a question their words may invite or to convey a certain caution and distance so as not to be blamed.
“I don’t have anything specific, but it’s possible his neighbor may have become a bit much for Damon to handle.”
“Oh? What’s the neighbor’s story, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Jeremy’s voice was deliberate and measured in spite of the privacy of his meeting room. It was unlikely anyone could overhear, even at a conversational level behind a closed door, yet his tone remained cautious.
“Aline Lloyd—she lives alone on the other side of the hill from your property. She’s been up in the valley about four years now. Not a recluse or shut-in, certainly, but mostly she keeps herself to herself.”
“Was there friction between them?” I asked. “Damon wasn’t exactly the confrontational type.”
“I wouldn’t say it was friction, really, but there have been three separate owners of your property who sold up and moved on since Aline came down, and I think your brother was simply the most recent.”
I wanted to avoid presumptions and judgment of others I hadn’t met, especially as a foreign visitor in another land, but Jeremy’s characterization of Damon’s neighbor sounded like something more than a crotchety, intolerant old lady. I waited as he wiped the coffee droplets from a glazed, ceramic mug sculpted in the exaggerated likeness of a snake’s head.
“Three owners in four years?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding, “and none of them lasted more than a few months. The house has been vacant most of the time and only got a decent wash and brush up when Damon was here. Aline can be a bit difficult, you see.”
I smirked at him knowingly and with a nod at the image forming in my mind: a nasty-tempered spinster, calling the cops because the music is forever too loud.
“Mean old battleship, is she?” I grinned.
Jeremy’s eyes went wide open.
“Oh no, Mr. Morgan, nothing like that. She’s more your age, actually; mid-thirties, I’d say. Aline’s a very pretty girl but not always easy to come at.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Temperament, I suppose. She was a bit of a mystery when we first saw her. Aline came here from a transitional facility after some troubles up in Scotland—Glasgow, I believe it was—and the social services man advised she was best left alone, so we leave her alone.”
“What does she do?” I wondered, suddenly more interested in the dynamic between Damon and an oddball hermit.
“She owns a fashion boutique up in Colwyn Bay; does very nicely from it, too. Most days she’s pleasant enough, so long as you keep a distance and stick to the formalities.”
“I remember Colwyn Bay from the travel pamphlets.”
“It’s a nice little seaside town, if you’ve never been—very quaint. The summer crowds are a bit thick, though…”
“Seems like a long way to go for a day job, doesn’t it?”
“Aline makes her way about in an ancient Rover cast off from the Royal Marines. Knows how to look after it, too—not afraid of getting her hands dirty.”
“But she settled all the way down here?” I asked. “Why not find something closer to her shop?”
“I couldn’t say for sure, but I think she just prefers space around her—away from the crowds. She loves the trees, and anyway, she has a manager and two employees that see after things day to day. With all the laptop computers and telephones wi
th cameras these days, it’s not essential for her to pop in each morning, is it?”
“No, I guess not.”
Another image began to form in my mind, but the description of the enigmatic Miss Lloyd only created more questions.
“You said she had trouble in Scotland?”
“That’s what we were told,” Jeremy replied, “and we tend to leave that part alone, if you take my meaning.”
“That part?”
He leaned back with a nervous laugh, peering through the window and down to the street. I had struck a sour chord, and Jeremy’s expression confirmed it, but knowing a notoriously aloof woman owned the adjacent parcel pushed me to want to understand what I was getting into.
“It’s not entirely clear as to the circumstances, and I’m certainly not casting aspersions toward Aline, you understand, but…”
“Go on, Mr. Collingwood,” I said, but his response came nearly under his breath.
“Emotional difficulties, apparently; they had her in a sort of ward for a brief time, you see. The government man explained her treatment was quite successful and we shouldn’t regard Aline differently than any other.”
“Did they elaborate on her condition or the nature of these difficulties?” I asked.
“Not a chance,” he said, snorting. “They would never reveal such things, and I can’t name all the violations if they divulged private medical information. They would only say she’d been discharged from hospital and was making a new start here in Denbighshire. Aline is from Cardiff, so it’s not surprising she wanted to restart somewhere in Wales.”
In the middle of our conversation, and for no reason I could think of, a new image came suddenly and clearly into my mind like a photo burned onto a glass transparency dangling in front of my eyes. I’d never experienced such a thing, but the picture was nearly alive with an image of a windswept neighborhood on an island. It was unrecognizable by any landmark I’d seen and nondescript to a stranger, yet somehow, I knew at once where it was. A figure walked alone in tall grass between six or seven stout houses. I could hear myself muttering the words but they came out on their own as if I was a puppet in the hands of a clever ventriloquist.
“Stornoway—Damon’s neighbor came here from Stornoway.”
Jeremy blinked a few times and it was clear my unexpected revelation took him off guard. I couldn’t tell him how I knew where the neighbor girl came from because I had no idea. My surprise was no less than his but the words just came out and the awkward moment went on.
“They had her at a sort of halfway house for patients returning to society. Did Mr. Fields-Donnelley mention…”
“In the Hebrides,” I added quickly.
“Yes, that’s right. She was with them a few months before she was sent on her own again.”
My ears clicked and began to ring in the high-pitched tone I experience from time to time. The condition started when I was young and never lasts for long, but it seemed louder than usual and with a mild sensation of pressure. I looked at Jeremy for a moment but was unable to make a sound. His eyebrows were up, waiting for me to speak, but I could only ride out the seconds and that piercing noise until it began to ease. I cleared my throat needlessly and returned to the map.
“No fence between the properties?”
He looked at the map mostly with relief and probably grateful for a change in topic.
“No, but that’s not unusual here; why do you ask?”
“No reason,” I said quickly, “just wondered, I guess. It would be handy to know the property line to avoid crossing over it by accident; I’d rather not disturb her while I explore the area.”
“There are boundary poles on the corners you can see quite easily. The road forms the western side as well and that should help you find your bearings.”
The ringing returned but this time it was much louder, shrill and with a discomfort Jeremy noticed.
“Are you well, Mr. Morgan? Can I get you a tablet—something for a headache, perhaps?”
“No, no,” I replied, “it’ll pass in a few moments. I get ringing in my ears once in a while—a sort of mild tinnitus—it’s probably flaring up from all the travel, that’s all.”
Jeremy smiled, but his eyes shifted suddenly in a way that seemed to expect trouble to walk through his door.
“As you say, but do let me know if you’d like to rest or maybe have a short visit with the doctor.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine,” I answered.
As the sensation eased, I couldn’t take my eyes from the map Jeremy laminated between sheets of cellophane. I felt stuck in a strange daydream, aware of it as though watching from outside my body. Only the map mattered and I could hear footfalls on the street clopping along like a hobnail boot on old paving stones. The sensation released its grip once more and I looked at Jeremy.
“Can I see the property now?”
“Yes of course,” he replied. “I’ll just grab my coat and we’re off.”
It shouldn’t have been surprising but the ride up to my new acquisition went by quickly, reminding me of the close geography of a small town and my distance from the city streets of D.C. The road curved gently uphill as Jeremy leaned forward, craning his neck, nearly against the wheel so he wouldn’t miss the gap between two hedgerows where a pebbled drive fell suddenly downward. The way was uneven and scattered with puddles, leveling where a very Welsh, two-story stone house waited in the clutches of untended shrubbery and groundcover advancing with each passing month.
Brand new, six-pane windows were set deep into place and a porch with a steep-pitched, narrow roof guarded a heavy wooden door painted in thick coats of dark green. Above, the slate roof I had noticed in Jeremy’s photos was gone, replaced instead with utilitarian metal panels—ribbed and tightly fitting against the weather and likely changed out by Damon’s renovation crew. I stood next to the car for a moment, smiling at a scene the manager of a Pier 1 Imports store might call “new rustic.”
“Is everything in Wales made of stone?” I asked.
“Not quite,” Jeremy said, grinning, “but stone doesn’t rot and it doesn’t burn so there is a wisdom to it.”
He pulled the keys from his pocket and handed them over, nodding for me to lead. After the door moved silently on its hinges, absent the creaks and groans I was sure were waiting, a wide plank floor—smooth and blackened by a century of traffic—led through a foyer to an inviting living room. The white, lime-washed walls were blank and above them, a low ceiling of rough-hewn beams set in plaster separated the ground floor from upstairs bedrooms.
“We came up last night to check on things and air it out a bit,” Jeremy began. “The electricity and water are back on and the television’s connected as well.”
The furniture was surprisingly modern and Damon’s kitchen was fitted out with major appliances in brushed metal finish sitting neatly between fashionable brick arches. It was surprising to find the place so livable, despite the short time that had passed since work crews and carpenters finished up, but Jeremy anticipated my curiosity.
“You’ll find most of the essentials except for linens and bathroom items. Kitchen’s done up but I’m afraid the plates and cookware are rather gaudy. Damon bought them at a discount store but they work well enough, and he didn’t seem to be the sort who’s concerned for trends or fashion.”
We walked through a narrow hallway where the stairs jutted upward on steep treads, opening to each of three bedrooms. I went slowly, inspecting the way people do when visiting a place for the first time and applying silent judgment of others and the styles they prefer. Damon had obviously left decorating in the hands of professionals and doing so made for a stark contradiction to his cluttered and confused apartment in Spain. Jeremy handed me a sheet of paper with names and addresses so I would have a starting point when searching out food stores and places to buy pillows or rugs.
“We have most of these things locally,” he explained, “but a dash over to Wrexham or up to Liverpool will find
the more specialized items; Chester has some good shops, too.”
With the changing season, I decided, throw rugs would be needed on cold nights in bare feet padding to the kitchen, but I could feel Jeremy’s eyes suddenly on me.
“Eventually, you will run into Aline,” he said gently. “Maybe on the road or in town.”
I waved his thought away and said, “I don’t want to cause trouble for anyone and least of all a neighbor who has no patience for strangers.”
“I understand, Mr. Morgan, and I’m glad of it, but Aline…she’s not a bad person or a lunatic. The ones who sold the place to Damon were told about Aline’s problems in Scotland and it made them a bit leery of her. They get odd ideas, especially when the others who came here before packed it in so suddenly; it’s hard for them to not imagine Aline had anything to do with it, you understand.”
“Something must’ve put them off,” I said.
Had it been this way for Damon, I wondered? Jeremy nodded through the window where the hillside rose gently.
“She’s a bit different and not…I just mean we’ve gotten used to her and she’s gotten used to us. She doesn’t like strangers and you’re right about that, but all I’m saying is this: be patient—let some time pass, and she’ll get used to you, too. You’re an even-tempered lad and she’ll see that.”
He waited for me to speak, but I was suddenly lost in a strange void between decisions. It was clear he wondered if I was there to stay or if I meant to take the profit from selling off and return to America. I wondered, too. For most of the ride up from London, I’d spent the time reinforcing my carefully made intention only to look around, nod, and then make arrangements for the sale, but suddenly, standing in a house I didn’t buy, the strange sensation of belonging began to invade my thoughts.
The Seventh Life of Aline Lloyd Page 3
