He looked back at me and smiled warmly. "Thank you, Phillip. Your approval means a lot to me."
Gillian took her seat. She was pretty, gregarious, warm and giving, everything my mother was not.
"How could I not approve?" I said.
Gillian looked puzzled, then realised that something momentous had taken place in her absence. Her eyes questioned my father, who smiled broadly at her. Then she leaned across the table, and planted a kiss on my cheek. "Thank you for making this so easy, Phillip," she said. "Russell was dreading this afternoon."
"He needn't have. He deserves some happiness in his life."
Had I known then the events that were to follow, I would have bitten my tongue.
Long, thorn-sharp branches of dog rose scratched at the paintwork of my gleaming red Morgan as I eased it along the dirt track leading to my father's new home. The directions he'd given me were clear and precise, taking me from the end of the M27, through Ringwood, on to Dorchester, and finally to the village closest to the house. Once outside the village I found the directions invaluable, as the house was still a mile away. A mile of narrow, winding, country lanes, bordered on each side by high hedges of quick-thorn and privet, with the occasional honeysuckle and blackberry growing though to provide some interest.
I nearly missed the track entirely. There was a weather-beaten wooden sign leaning back in the bushes at an angle of forty five degrees, its lettering faded and eroded by time. I had to get out of the car to read it. It said, Mallory's Farm, and pointed vaguely to an overgrown track to my right. I headed along the track and finally came upon a five bar gate, once again having to get out of the car to open it. From the gate there was a short drive leading to the farmhouse.
The drive gave onto a cobbled yard littered with builder's debris. A small yellow cement mixer stood idle to one side of the yard, next to it a large heap of sand and, against one end of the house, a skeleton of scaffolding clung to the wall. Part of the slate roof was missing and covered with a blue tarpaulin, but there was no sign of anyone working on it. The house itself had obviously seen better days, but the yellow sandstone blocks that made up the basic structure seemed solid enough. To the right of the house was a dilapidated wooden barn, a small stable block with missing doors, though there were no signs of horses.
I parked the car next to the cement mixer and got out, stretching my legs, and massaging the small of my back to remove the kinks brought on by the long drive. My knock at the door brought no response. I waited, knocked again, then made my way around the side of the house, and found my father working in the garden. He appeared to be erecting a fence. Long stakes had been driven into the earth in a line at the end of the garden, and he was busy stapling lengths of barbed wire from post to post.
"Is that to keep people out, or to keep Gillian in?" I said, coming up behind him. He turned and smiled, but it was with his mouth only. His eyes were encircled by dark rings and looked deeply troubled. He had lost weight too. His face looked gaunt, and his clothes seemed to hang on his frame. The clothes themselves were a long way from the dapper man-about-town style he usually affected. Baggy grey trousers and stained checked shirt, with shoes caked in mud and dirt. The combined effect of the clothes and the weight-loss seemed to put twenty years on him. I realised with alarm that the marks on his shirt were bloodstains. His hands were cut and bleeding, and he wiped them absently on his shirt. "You ought to wear gloves for a job like that," I said.
He stared down at his hands as if noticing the cuts for the first time. "Probably right," he said gruffly. A dog was barking somewhere inside the house, then the back door was pushed open and a huge, longhaired German Shepherd came bounding out into the garden. It was barking furiously and heading my way. I took an involuntary step backwards.
"Stay where you are," my father snapped at me. "He won't hurt you. That's enough, Barney. Sit!"
The dog stopped within a yard of me, and sat back on its haunches, growling deep in its throat.
"What's going on?" I said. "Guard dogs, barbed wire? Are you expecting an invasion?" I made no reference to his appearance. That could wait.
"Gillian feels safer in the house with the dog around. Let him sniff your hand, and don't look him in the eye. Dogs take that as a challenge. Look at a point just above his head."
I did as I was told and nervously put out my hand, fearing that any moment the dog would lunge and take a large piece out of me. The dog sniffed my hand cautiously and started to wag its tail, apparently satisfied that I was friendly, then he wandered across to my father's side, offering his head for a stroke.
"Where's Gillian?" I asked, relieved that the dog now had another interest.
"I had a studio built for her upstairs. She spends most of her time up there. Come into the house. I'm sure you could use a drink after your journey."
My father was pouring me a drink when Gillian finally came down from her studio. I couldn't believe the change in her. She looked gaunt and ragged. Her eyes had retreated into dark hollows, and her chestnut hair was cropped short. The style would have suited her delicate features had it not emphasised the waxy paleness of her skin. Her whole body seemed emaciated, even to the extent of a small potbelly that looked dangerously like the signs of malnutrition. She regarded me with tired eyes, and a wan smile spread across her lips.
"Hello, Phillip," she said, in a voice suffused with weariness. "It's so good to see you again."
"You too," I said and hugged her, feeling her bones, sharp and angular, through the thin material of her dress. Father was watching my face, gauging my reaction. He was quite aware that Gillian was but a pale shadow of the bright, vivacious young woman I had met at the Savoy all those months ago, and he was looking to me for confirmation of the fact. In her appearance I supposed lay the reasons for his own deterioration.
We all chatted amiably enough for a few minutes, but Gillian seemed uncomfortable. She refused the offer of a drink, and stood, holding on to the back of a chair as if for support, while we sat. Eventually she said, "Please don't think me rude, but I'm very close to finishing a painting. I'd like to get back to it, if you two don't mind. Besides, I'm sure you have business you wish to discuss." With that she left the room, the dog at her heels, and we listened to her heavy tread on the stairs.
"I may be talking out of turn," I said, "but is Gillian well?"
Father stared moodily into the empty hearth. "She's pregnant," he said flatly.
"Oh," I said. "I see." So the slightly swollen stomach was at least not lack of food. However the news took me completely by surprise, and it obviously showed on my face. Even with this explanation, I was concerned about the drastic change in her appearance, in both their appearances.
"It wasn't planned, if that's what you're thinking. I wanted to get everything sorted out first. Damn it, I wanted us to be married first."
"Well, I can see it could complicate matters. When's it due?"
"She's about four months gone." He swallowed the rest of his drink and poured himself another. "I'm sorry, I should have told you before."
"Why?" I said, holding my glass out for a refill. "It's hardly any of my business."
He was pouring my drink, his back to me. "You've been a good son, Phillip. The only reason I stayed with your mother for so long was because your arrival gave the marriage some point. Your sisters both take after Isobel, I'm afraid."
"They love you, in their own way."
"Oh, I doubt that very much. In fact, I doubt that love is an emotion either of them are capable of feeling."
"That's a very harsh judgement."
"Maybe, but it's true nonetheless, and you know it." He returned to his seat. "Let's get the business out of the way," he said, changing the subject. "There's a lot I need to talk to you about."
"As you wish," I said. "I'll get my bag in from the car."
I walked around to the front of the house where my car was parked, reached in to retrieve my case and then swore. Running down one side of the calfskin l
eather of the case were a series of scratches. Carved quite deep into the leather and at an angle, it looked as if someone had scraped a large dining fork across it. I cursed the dog because the marks looked like nothing less than the marks left by an animal's claws, and the dog was the only suspect.
Then I noticed there were similar marks on the paintwork of the car. All along one side. I remembered the thorns along the narrow lanes, but surely they couldn't have gouged out quite such deep scratches. These looked like deliberate damage caused by sharp claws.
I took the case and joined my father in the study at the back of the house. I decided not to mention the marks and kept the damaged side of the case away from him. Something in his manner, and my knowledge of the type of man he was, suggested to me that he hadn't yet told me everything about what was troubling Gillian and himself. I set my case down upon the desk and opened it up, taking out a sheaf of papers, balance sheets, statements and invoices. "I had a meeting with Geoffery Salisbury yesterday," I said.
Father was at the window, staring out into the garden and beyond. "Yes, I know. He called me."
I smiled ruefully. I should have realised that Salisbury would be in close contact with my father. "Well," I said. "What do you think of his advice?"
Father turned to face me. "More to the point, what do you think of it?"
I sat down at the desk and spread out the papers. "I think Willy should be kept out of the business at all costs."
"Really?"
"I know it seems to be the best solution to our problems, at least Salisbury, Mother and the girls seem to think so. But I just can't see myself working with Uncle Willy. The man's a rogue, and he knows as much about publishing as I know about nuclear physics, which isn't much. I'm sure he sees the company as an asset-stripping exercise, a tax loss. I've seen him do it to other companies he's bailed out in the past. Give him six months and he'll have halved the work force. The rest of us will be sitting biding our time until he sells the company for a profit and moves on."
Father sat down at the desk opposite me and started leafing through the papers. "I tend to agree with you. So if you were the majority share-holder you would reject the offer?"
"Yes I would. There are other ways to re-finance the company."
"Such as mortgaging the house, selling the villa in Italy."
"Of course."
"Your mother would never agree to that."
"But surely at the end of the day the decision is yours."
A wry smile played on his lips. "Geoffery's a good man. He sees the whole picture when everyone else is wrapped up in the minutiae. You realise that once the divorce begins, your mother will try to claim half of everything I own, and that includes the shares I hold. According to Geoffery, she'll get them. At the moment she holds nineteen shares, you and the girls hold ten each. Which means that come the divorce she'll have half of mine as well. Obviously the girls will throw in their lot with her, which means that any decision I make today is totally academic."
"She'll sell out to Willy."
"No doubt about it. Which is why I've taken steps to see that it doesn't happen. As of midnight tonight, all my shares in Scotney's will be transferred into your name. You'll wake up tomorrow as majority share-holder."
I was stunned. It was the last thing I expected him to do. "You can't mean it," I said. "Salisbury said nothing of this."
"I told him not to. Geoffery and I have been working very closely on this for the past few weeks, ever since Willy made his offer, in fact. The advice he gave you yesterday was a smokescreen, I'm afraid. Something to throw the hounds off our scent. If your mother had got wind of what I was planning, she would have done everything in her power to block it. Besides, I wanted the chance to speak with you first. I had a pretty good idea where you stood on the matter, but I needed to hear it from your own lips. I'm satisfied now that the company stands at least a fighting chance of survival."
"I'll do my best," I said.
"Oh, I know that. Besides in my new consultative role on the board I'll make sure of it."
I smiled slowly. "A consultative position at a salary comparable to the one you draw now, I suppose."
"But of course." He returned the smile.
"You're a cunning old fox," I said.
"I'll have a new wife and child to support. I'll need an income."
I raised my glass in a toast to him. "To Scotney's," I said. "A new beginning."
He raised his glass in reply but, before he could touch it to his lips, there came an almighty crash from upstairs, followed by the sound of Gillian crying out. He was out of his seat in an instant and running up the stairs. I was close behind him.
In Gillian's studio we found her sitting in the middle of the floor, her arms wrapped around herself. She was rocking backwards and forwards, crying softly. Her drawing board had been over-turned - the crash we heard - and paints, brushes and pencils were scattered across the floor. My father was at her side, cradling her in his arms, speaking to her softly, soothingly. I felt awkward intruding into such intimacy, so I set about righting the drawing board. As I did so I glanced at the picture she was working on, a representation of the view from the studio window, of the garden and the woods beyond.
"Is everything all right?" I asked.
My father was helping Gillian to her feet. She was still crying, and kept glancing back at the window, fear in her eyes.
"A little overwrought," Father said. "She'll be fine after a lie down. It's been a difficult pregnancy."
Gillian pulled away from him. "Tell him, Russell," she said angrily. "They were out there again, by the well. In daylight. Tell him."
"Tell me what?"
Father wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders and said with all the authority he could muster, "Nothing. There's nothing to tell." Gillian seemed to sag in his arms and he led her from the room. I heard the door to their bedroom close, followed by my father's voice raised in anger. The dog re-appeared on the landing sniffing around the doorway to the studio, then trotted along to the bedroom, laying down outside the door and resting its head on its paws. I went downstairs, poured myself a drink and took it out to the garden.
Someone had been working hard out here judging by the neatness of the flowerbeds and the productive vegetable plot. Beyond the garden was what appeared to be a wild-flower meadow, with poppies and wild foxgloves growing, dotting the long, knee-high grass with vivid spots of colour. Jutting up from the centre of the meadow was a small, circular, brick-built structure that looked like a well. I could not understand why it was stuck in the middle of the meadow unless, of course, the area of wild grass and flowers had once been part of the garden. At the far end of the meadow was deeply shaded woodland, tall stands of ash and elm, a dark brooding place that looked totally forbidding. Despite the warmth of the day, and the tranquillity of the scene, I felt a cold chill of discomfort creep along my spine.
I came to the fence my father was erecting, and was struck by the distance he'd left between the strands of barbed wire. To keep animals in or out a gap of about fourteen inches between strands is usually sufficient, but my father had set the strands much closer together. Four inches was all that separated one strand from its neighbour. It seemed likely that this fence had something to do with the cause of Gillian's distress, though what it was I couldn't imagine. "They were out there again, by the well." Her words came back to me. I looked across at the well and saw nothing. In fact the whole scene looked peaceful and rather idyllic.
"I think I owe you an explanation." My father had come up behind me.
"If it's something private between you and Gillian, then it's none of my business," I said.
"All the same, I'd like to talk it through with you. It's been going round and round in my head for weeks now. Quite honestly I'd like an objective opinion." He picked up the hammer that was lying on the ground, and continued with the fence as he spoke.
"This place had been empty for a couple of years when I first came across it
. It was at the bottom of a pile of property details the estate agent sent us. We looked at quite a few of the others but nothing seemed quite right, and Gillian kept coming back to the details on this place. It was slightly more than I could afford but, in the end, I agreed to come and look at it.
"It was in terrible repair, a real state. I estimated it would take several thousands to put it right. I said as much to the agent but he didn't seem to think it would be a problem. The elderly couple who lived here before had died, and the estate was being administered by their son. The agent was confident that the son would drop the price once the faults in the place were pointed out to him. I got a surveyor in to go over the house and to work out how much it would take to renovate it. Once I got his report, I sent it off to the agent. He persuaded the son to drop his price by ten thousand, which was more than enough to cover the repairs, so that sold it to us. I employed a local builder, a man called Barker, to carry out the work. It's him I have to blame for Gillian's present state of mind.
"We moved into the house with a lot of the renovation work still to do, but some of the rooms were habitable and Gillian was impatient to start building a home. We moved in and all was fine, or so it seemed. It was only when Gillian got chatting to Barker that she learned the whole history of the house, and since then things have gone from bad to worse. Gillian doesn’t know, but I’ve tried to sell the place, even accept a loss, but nothing doing. The stories that go with it, that no one told us, put people off. Barker told Gillian about the person who owned the land and house before the old couple took it over, a man called Seth Mallory."
Father paused and hammered another staple into a post. The afternoon was slipping into evening, and the light was beginning to fade, the sun dropping down behind the wood, painting the crowns of the trees a deep red. With the emerging dusk came the shadows. The shadows of the trees fell across the well, almost hiding it in darkness.
"Seth Mallory was a work-shy layabout, who farmed this piece of land in a lackadaisical manner. He was married to a rather dull, unintelligent creature who bore him six daughters who, as they grew, seemed to have inherited the worst traits of both parents. Local gossip has it that all the Mallory women were slatternly, promiscuous and generally loose. There were rumours of the father going with the daughters as well as with his wife. Well, the consequence of such behaviour is pretty obvious. Occasionally one of the girls would be spotted in the village, obviously pregnant, but no babies were ever seen by the locals, and no Christenings took place at the parish church. Of course tongues began to wag, and all manner of rumour and gossip began to circulate."
Echoes of Darkness Page 16
