by Mary Stewart
‘Stands to reason,’ said Mrs Pascoe, ‘that there’s nobody knows more about that old house and its fixings than my Jim, and when it comes to the plumbing you can’t get better than Peter Brigstock.’ She set down her cup. ‘Now, how about you? I should have said sooner, I was sorry about your trouble, we all were. An airman, wasn’t he, your husband?’
‘Yes. Bombers. He’d nearly finished his tour, only another four missions to go. Ah, well, that’s the way it went. It seems a long time ago now. We didn’t have very long, but we were happy while it lasted.’
‘It was a terrible thing. We were that sorry when we heard. But your Gran said he left you all right – comfortable, I mean? Well, that’s a bit to the good. And you’re living in London now, with a good job?’
‘Well, it’s a job. A friend offered it to me, and it’s pleasant work, in a big plant nursery. Not very well paid, but I enjoy it, and luckily that’s all that matters.’
‘You didn’t go back to teaching, then?’
‘No. I didn’t want to, but I had to do something.’ I didn’t elaborate. I had never wanted to admit, even to myself, what a vacuum Jon’s death had left in my life. With marriage had come a feeling of belonging, plans for the future, a sense of identity, of being. The satisfying, perhaps, of something primitive in every woman; the need for a warm cave-place of her own, and the family round the fire. Quite apart from the grief of it, his death had pushed me, so to speak, back on the world again, with my own solitary way to make, and not much idea of which way to go.
I put the thought aside, and asked about the people in Todhall that I remembered.
‘Will I find the place much changed?’
‘Not really. The village was lucky in the war. Your Gran would tell you about it, I don’t doubt.’
‘She told me Arthur Barton lost an arm, and about Sid Telfer being killed. How’s Airs Telfer making out? There were three children, weren’t there?’
‘There were. And there are five now, so the less said about her the better.’ She must have remembered then that she was talking to another child of shame, because she pushed the empty cup back rather hastily and got to her feet.
‘I’d best be getting along. I had a word with Ted Blaney yesterday – you remember the Blaneys at Swords Farm? – and he’ll stop by with milk tomorrow. If you have a word with him he’ll bring what you need from the village.’
‘Or give me a lift in? He always used to.’
‘I dare say he might still,’ she said, and suddenly smiled. ‘If you change to something a bit less London. His cart’s usually half full of straw, or even a hen or two in a crate. Not but what you look very nice, at that. So, I’ll be getting back to the Hall. I go up there most days while the men’s working. It’s just Jim and Davey there now, and you’d be welcome if you want to come by and see what’s going on.’
‘I’d like to, very much. Thank you.’
I went to the front gate with her, and stood while she made her way back across the bridge. There was a sort of secondary driveway there, which led up through the woods that edged the park and then past the walled garden and into the back quarters of the Hall. It was the way my grandfather had walked daily to his work, and where I, as a small child, had so many times gone with him.
I turned back into the cottage, hesitated for a moment by the hidden safe, then, shrugging, left it for tomorrow, and went up to my bedroom to unpack.
7
Try as I would, I could not set aside my curiosity about Gran’s safe. As soon as I had unpacked my few things, and refilled the hot water bottle in the freshly made-up bed, I went out to the toolshed which stood under the lilac tree behind the cottage.
The toolshed had always been my grandfather’s special place. It was small, a wooden hut with a window in one side, under which stood a sturdy bench, and on the other wall a row of six-inch nails from which hung his garden tools. If he had needed any special implement, he borrowed it from the big collection up at the Hall; here he kept only the basics, spade, fork, hoe, rake, shears, and, in a wall-rack beside the window, the hand-tools such as trowels and secateurs. A metal toolbox under the bench held chisels and screwdrivers and boxes of nails and so forth. The barrow was kept outside under a lean-to. There was no lawn mower; we had no lawn.
The shed had always been kept tidy, but when I saw it that day it was tidy indeed. It was empty. All the tools had gone, including the tool box. I checked the door, which had been locked, and which I had opened with the key that hung in the back kitchen. No sign there of tampering or damage. I looked outside; the barrow was there. But all that could be carried away had gone.
It was possible, of course, that Gran had got rid of the things, sold them or given them away when she went north. It didn’t concern me much, except that I would need something rather stronger than a kitchen knife to tackle the door of her safe. Feeling suddenly impatient, I glanced at my watch. Half past five. I would walk up to the Hall and borrow the tools I needed. If there were still gardeners employed there, they would have gone off at five, and the gate into the walled garden would probably be locked, but I knew where the key was kept. I got my jacket from the cottage, and set out for the Hall.
Across the bridge, up through the belt of woodland that edged the park, and then a short cut through a landscaped glade to the high wall of the vegetable garden and the archway with the beautiful iron gate that had been made, nearly a hundred years ago, in the smithy next door to the vicarage.
I did not need, after all, to feel up behind the Virginia creeper for the key. Just before I reached it the gate opened, and a young man came out, wheeling a bicycle. A workman, by his clothes, and what my grandfather would have called ‘a well-set-up young feller’. He looked to be about my age, a capable-looking young man with brown hair and grey eyes, where I thought I could still see the quiet, clever seventeen-year-old who had been in my class at school.
He checked when he saw me. ‘Were you looking for someone? I’m the last. Everyone knocked off at five.’
‘I – it’s Davey, isn’t it? It is Davey?’
‘Aye, but–? Hang on a minute. You’re Kathy, Kathy Welland. Mum said you were here. We-ell!’ The last syllable was drawn out with a world of meaning as he looked me over from head to foot.
‘Wouldn’t you have known me?’ I heard, in my own voice, a kind of wistfulness. Here in the place where as a child I had spent so many hours with my grandfather, where I had learned so much of what I needed to carry into the world, and where I had sometimes played with this very boy when his father had been working at the Hall, something in me was responding strongly to the scents and sights of a happy childhood, and Davey, standing there so changed, and looking at me with a mixture of friendly surprise and reserve, was part of it.
I could hear, too, that my voice had taken back, as a kind of echo, some of the country sounds it had rejected. Kate Herrick or Kathy Welland? Which was I? Which did I want to be?
‘Sure I’d have known you,’ he said. ‘The sun was right behind you there, and you spoke different, but now I see you, yes, I’d know you anywhere.’ He gave a nod. ‘Good to see you back, Kathy. You okay at the cottage?’
‘Fine, thank you. Were you going that way?’
‘Yes. I’m going to the station to pick up a package for my Dad. I’ll walk down with you if you like. Were you wanting something up here, or were you just out for a walk? Mum said you might come up some time, but she went home when Dad left with the van.’
‘I really came up to see if I could borrow a hammer and chisel. All the tools have gone from our shed. If you’ll wait a minute while I get them—’
‘No need to bother going in there. I’ve got my tools with me. I can lend you what you want. What’s it for? Mum didn’t say anything needed doing.’ I saw then that a satchel of tools was strapped behind the bicycle. As he spoke he busied himself pulling the flap open, then turned with a chisel in his hand. ‘This do? What d’you want it for? I’ll come in if you like and fettle it for
you.’
I took it from him. ‘Well, thank you, but—’ I stopped. The chisel looked familiar, and yes, there on the handle, burned into the wood, were the initals H.W.
I looked up to see Davey grinning. It made him look years younger, and very like the boy I had known before time and the war years had taken and changed us both.
He gave a nod. ‘Yes, that’s where they all went. You might’ve guessed. Your Gran told me to take the lot, “and see you make good use of them, my lad,” she said, you know the way she talks. But you’re welcome to any of them if you need them. Goes without saying.’
‘No, no. Just for the one job, and—’ I made a decision. ‘And yes, Davey, I would be glad if you’d help me. If you’ve time, that is; I don’t know how long it may take. I’ll tell you about it on the way down.’
We went together, Davey wheeling his bicycle, and as we went I told him about the safe, and something of what Gran had said. ‘There are things like Granddad’s watch and medals, and some jewellery of Gran’s, and some family papers. I never even knew about it, and I honestly believe she’d forgotten all about it herself till she heard that they might be going to alter the cottage.’
‘We’ll get them out, no bother. But wasn’t there a key?’
‘Yes, but of course she’s forgotten where she hid it. That’s the other thing. I had a look at the safe, Davey, and the plaster’s been cut away from the door. Someone’s been there, but whether the door’s been opened or not I can’t tell. If it has, then it’s been opened with the key. There’s no sign of forcing.’
‘Hm. Sounds queer to me. No wonder you’re in a hurry to take a look at it.’ A frowning pause. ‘I suppose your Gran couldn’t have been at it herself some time back, and forgotten that as well?’
‘I thought of that. But your mother told me just now that there was a trace of plaster on the floor there when she was cleaning, and that must have been pretty recent.’
‘It’s loose stuff. Even if the wall was broken some time back, the plaster might still be flaking. Don’t you worry yourself about it, we’ll soon see. I suppose you did look for the key?’
‘Yes. I’ve not had time yet for a real search, though I’ve looked in the obvious places, but it must be very small – the keyhole’s tiny – and it could be anywhere, so I thought I might as well try and lever the door open somehow, just to set my mind at rest. Break it open, even. Gran’s not likely to be using the place again.’
We had reached the bridge. He paused with the bicycle hoisted half up the steps. ‘So it’s true what Mum said? You’re leaving Todhall for good?’
‘Yes. Gran seems to want to stay at Strathbeg, and I’ve got a job in London now that I like, though if it came to that I’d be quite happy to give it up and go north to look after her. Anyway, they’re selling our cottage, or making it over or something, aren’t they?’
‘Nobody seems rightly to know what’s to be done with it. In any case’ – he heaved his bicycle up over the steps and wheeled it across the bridge – ‘busting your Gran’s safe open won’t hardly matter. Or if you like I can ask my Dad? It sounds to me as if he, or my Grandpa even, must have put that hidey-hole in, and there may be another key. But if you’re in a hurry,’ he added, cheerfully, as he propped the bicycle beside the cottage gate, ‘we can break it open now. Soon see, when I’ve had a look at it.’
‘What time do you have to be at the station?’
‘Doesn’t matter. The package’ll be left in the office, and there’ll be someone there till the last train.’ He followed me into the cottage, dumping his tool bag on the table, and watched while I lifted down the Unseen Guest.
‘Hm, yes.’ He looked thoughtfully at the cleared piece of wall, and the metal square framed by paper and broken plaster. ‘And my Mum said there’d been a fall of plaster here?’
‘Yes. Davey, could there be anyone local who’d know about the safe? I mean, if it has been opened, it’s been done with a key, and—’
I stopped. He had swung round on me, in a way that reminded me sharply of the young Davey squaring up to a fight in the school playground.
‘You listen to me, Kathy Welland! I told you, if your Granddad had this put in, it would be my Grandpa he’d get to do it, and if it was meant to be private, you can bet that my Grandpa never told anyone. My Dad may know about it, because he has all the shop records, but he never told me, and he would never tell my Mum either. And if he does have a spare key—’
‘Davey! It didn’t occur to me! Please! Truly it didn’t. Why on earth should I think any of your family would go prying about here? It really could be that Gran did this herself ages ago, to put something away or get something out, and forgot to tell me that I’d find the paper already cut away.’
‘Not likely.’ But he sounded mollified. ‘This wasn’t done all that long ago. Look at the edges of the plaster.’ He was running a thumb along the cut edge as he spoke. Dry plaster-dust floated to the floor.
‘Ye-es, I see. Look, Davey, if you think your father might have a key, wouldn’t it be easier to wait and ask him?’
‘You reckon?’ And, with his sudden grin at me, we were once again on easy terms. ‘You’d never last till morning. We’d better find out now. Let’s go right ahead and bust it open.’
‘All right, let’s.’
He set to work with the chisel, but after a while stood back, shaking his head. ‘The fit’s too tight, I can’t get the blade in for leverage. I’ll really have to break it. Okay by you?’
‘Yes.’
It looked easy. He laid the blade of the chisel against the door’s edge nearest the keyhole, and gave two sharp blows with a hammer. There was a crack, and the little door came open. Davey said something under his breath, and stood back.
‘What is it?’
‘Look,’ he said.
I looked. Predictably, but still shockingly, the safe was empty.
Davey put into words what, after his recent outburst, I didn’t care to say.
‘Well, so that was opened with a key.’
‘Perhaps Gran really did – oh, no, there’s the plaster. Well,’ I said, uneasily, ‘it’s obvious what’s happened, isn’t it? There’s been someone in here, squatters, perhaps, dossing in the empty house, and they came across the key, wherever she left it, and tried the safe door.’
‘They’d have to have known it was behind the picture.’
‘They might just have found it if they hunted about.’
‘Covered over with wallpaper?’
‘Oh. Well, no. Oh, dear, this is awful. What am I to say to Gran? What are we to do?’
‘Better not say anything to your Gran yet. But I reckon,’ said Davey slowly, ‘that we’ll have to tell Dad about this.’ I noticed that he had accepted my ‘we’ as natural. ‘Look, I’ll ask him first thing if he knew about the safe, and if there was another key, and I’ll find out from Mum if that plaster on the floor was dry.’
He pushed the door as far shut as it would go, then hung the Unseen Guest back in its place. ‘And you can forget about squatters. I’ve come this way on my bike two nights out of five the last month, with a job I’m doing at Swords Farm, and there’s never been anyone about. And Mum would have seen signs if people had been in the house. So you don’t need to be scared, but if you are—’
‘I’m not. Truly. Just worried, and just wishing I could think of some explanation. I mean, if it was a thief they’d have taken the valuables, but they’d surely have left the papers, or just chucked them in the fireplace or something. Hang on a minute’ – and I was on my knees, destroying Mrs Pascoe’s carefully laid fire – ‘No, only newspaper. And they were so tidy, weren’t they? They cleared most of the plaster away, and the torn wallpaper …’ I got to my feet again. ‘Oh, well, there’s nothing we can do for now, is there? But thanks for everything, Davey, and don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine, really.’
‘If you’re sure. Good night, then.’
After he had gone I sat for a while, thinking
, before getting up to re-lay the fire and put a match to it. The bright blaze brought the room alive, and even made a kind of company. Home. It was a long time since I had sat by this fire, but it felt like yesterday. I got myself some supper, then found the Penguin I had bought for the train journey and read for an hour or two without thinking more than fifty times about the empty safe, and finally, when the grandmother clock said eleven, went up to bed.
8
Next morning I was up very early, but had barely finished my coffee when I heard the sound of trotting hoofs coming down the lane from the road.
I went out to meet the farmer, a wiry middle-aged man with a face carved out of sunburned teak, who jumped down from the cart and came up the path carrying his wire basket of milk bottles.
‘’Morning. Nice to see you back. How’re you keeping?’
‘Good morning, Mr Blaney. I’m fine, thanks. And you?’
‘Mustn’t grumble. And Mrs Welland?’
‘She’s had flu, but she’s mending. I’ll tell her you asked.’
‘You do that. How many?’
‘Do I have a choice? We’re rationed in town.’
‘Not here, you’re not. A pint do? And two-three fresh eggs if it suits you? I’ve got some in the cart. And I’ve got your suitcase there, too. I picked it up at the station. Mr Harbottle said I might as well bring it down home for you.’
(Home? I remember, I remember. But I was only here in passing, to pack up and then abandon the house where I was born, however much it seemed to want to wrap me around with familiar things. I had a job, a place elsewhere that I would soon go back to. There was nothing here for me now, not for Kate Herrick.)
I thanked Mr Blaney, and accepted his offer of eggs, while he asked a bit more about Gran and her new house (how had he heard that?) and whether or not she meant ever to come back to Todhall. He seemed to be in no hurry, and I saw why. His mare, left to herself in the lane, had trotted on to where it widened near the bridge, and there, with a couple of expert heaves of her rump, she turned the cart neatly and came back to the gate, ready for the return journey.
