Where We Belong

by Anstey Harris

  ‘I’m going to sleep now.’ He closes his eyes, lowers his head to the pillow. His headphones slip sideways and away from one of his ears but he’s pretending to be asleep so he resists the temptation to move it back.

  *

  ‘How’s tricks?’ asks Patch when I go back downstairs. He has put a bottle of wine and two glasses on the table: I could kiss him. ‘Supper?’ he says and offers me a bowl of crisps and, in the other hand, an apple.

  I take the crisps. ‘He’s not talking. I’m still no wiser to what happened – except that mention of Martin was made.’

  ‘Bloody Martin, honestly. He could start a fight in an empty field.’ He pours the wine. ‘It’s something and nothing – I think Sophie was making conversation rather than making a point. But she hit a nerve.’

  ‘The job?’

  Patch sits back, leaves the keyboard for a minute and sips his wine. ‘Martin’s got a job at the supermarket, organising the trolleys. I mean, good for him, it’s great for anyone to find employment in this political climate – let alone someone as potentially annoying as Martin. Sophie stopped by on her way here and he told her all about his duties.’ He pulls a face, ‘I can only imagine.’ He passes me the glass. ‘And now Leo feels a bit . . . you know . . .’

  ‘Inadequate.’ There is no sadness like the sadness of one’s child. ‘In happier news, your drawings . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry – I hope you don’t think they’re intrusive. They were only for me, for a record . . .’ He breaks off.

  ‘Can I use them? I mean, the museum, can we use them?’ I’m buzzing with ideas. ‘Maybe make them into prints or use them on social media?’

  ‘If you think, well, you know . . . If you like them that much, of course you can.’

  ‘I love them. I really love them.’

  ‘I really love you.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I am surprised when Patch finally brings his things up from Pear Tree Cottage – after he’d been worn down by my insisting on lending him the money – at how little he really has.

  ‘You weren’t kidding about travelling light, were you?’ I ask him as we take the three bags out of the car.

  He shakes his head. ‘At first it was sheer logistics, but then it became . . . strangely liberating. My books are on my tablet, all my music as well. I never keep old paintings – I always hate them after a while. I’m not a hoarder, I suppose. In the end they’re just things, and they don’t matter.’

  I think about the boxes of stuff we still have upstairs in the abandoned apartments: stuff I might well never unpack: textbooks and teaching notes, Richard’s technical drawing stuff. I don’t need it, but I haven’t the heart to get rid of it. ‘Each to his own,’ I say, determined to hang on to my boxes of the past. ‘And we’ve got room.’

  My mobile rings in my pocket. I put the bin bag down on the steps of the house. It’s the journalist who wrote my article.

  ‘I need to clarify something with you before we go to print. I’m happy with everything else and the pictures are divine. My editor is running the one of you, Araminta and Leo as the cover of this weekend’s magazine.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’ I didn’t expect that. It’ll do wonders for the museum. ‘Amazing.’

  ‘It’s just . . . I’m not sure what to say about your husband’s death. I don’t know whether it’s too much – for you, I mean, and for Leo – to say that he killed himself. I wanted to check with you about it.’

  I sit down on the step. Beside me, Patch’s bag contains the last of his clothes: the last of his things to live anywhere but inside Hatters, with me.

  ‘You can say that he killed himself, Janet. Because that’s what happened.’

  *

  When the article comes out, I hope that it will change our fortunes even further: that we will make enough to live on – enough to pay Curtis, certainly, and possibly enough to pay me.

  The email pings into my inbox as soon as I end the call.

  From: Roger Hamilton-Cox

  To: Cate Morris

  Cc: Araminta Buchan

  Dear Miss Buchan and Ms Morris

  I am writing to you in my capacity as Chairman of the Board of Trustees for Hatters house, museum, and gardens.

  Firstly, it is my sad and solemn duty to announce the death of Myles Wright (QC) who, as I’m sure you know, filled a variety of positions on the board – most latterly as secretary. The board is grateful to Myles’ service over almost four decades and, should you wish to send your condolences to his family, I will be very happy to provide you with their postal details.

  Myles’ death leaves us with a vacancy on the board which, coupled with your recent difficulties at the house, means that we have had to cast the net wide for a family member to fill the space created. As I’m sure you’re aware, it becomes more and more difficult to find suitable candidates who have a direct connection with Colonel Hugo’s bloodline and we are having to look ever further afield. We have approached two candidates – both second cousins by marriage to the late Geoffrey Lyons-Morris. Both are considering the duties that they would be required to per form.

  My second reason for writing is that the trustees feel that they need to inspect the damage caused by the recent fire and, more pertinently, the efforts that have been made to repair that damage. We appreciate that it is extremely difficult for two women, alone and with a limited budget, to hope to carry out any repairs or to make the building safe for habitation.

  The pompous tone was bad enough, but Araminta and I being reduced to ‘two women’ makes my blood boil. Whoever this man is, whatever his connection to Colonel Hugo, he has no right to speak to either of us like that. The irony is that he’s clearly unaware that Colonel Hugo’s own great-grandson lives here too.

  A shadow falls across me from the drive. Araminta is standing on the gravel – her face set in a grimace. ‘You’ve got it too then,’ she says in response to my shocked face.

  ‘I’m just finishing reading it. Hang on.’

  We intend to combine these two factors by calling an extraordinary meeting of the board and coupling it with a fact-finding visit. We will arrive at Hatters on 21 August at 2 p.m. and would be very grateful if you could prepare some tea and sandwiches for us. We will meet in the library and obviously require privacy for our discussion. The two prospective candidates will accompany us, which will bring our number to eight (numbers advisory for your catering).

  With best regards

  Roger Hamilton-Cox

  ‘Tea and sandwiches?’ I look up at her.

  ‘I’m afraid Roger thinks that’s the primary function of the female. Or at least one of them.’ Araminta sighs and sits down on the step. She brushes the stone with her hands as she sits, a single elegant motion I’m sure I couldn’t carry out. ‘They’re basically coming to case the joint – to see what to start selling off first. I knew this was coming, eventually. I went to see a couple of the least dangerous ones in London the day after . . .’ She tails off.

  Neither of us talk about that day although the suspicion of it hovers between us like a constant cloud.

  She clears her throat, carries on talking. ‘Unfortunately, Myles was one of the last remaining members who doesn’t see the big sell-off as the way forward. Roger wants nothing else: and he will make sure that the new candidate agrees with him.’

  ‘And we get no say? You get no say?’

  ‘They’re very old.’ It seems funny coming from her. ‘And they do things the way they have always done them.’

  ‘And there’s nothing we can do? Nothing at all?’

  ‘I didn’t say that . . .’ says Araminta.

  *

  Araminta obviously got the email before I did. She has already had time to prepare the old billiard room as her campaign office. This is the downstairs room where broken furniture comes to die: there are stacks of dining chairs with three legs or ripped seats. An armoire lurches drunkenly to one side against the wall, balanced on the top of it is a jet-bla
ck bull’s head on a wooden plinth, one of his horns snapped off and jagged, his eyes wild and staring. I ought to get Leo and Curtis to clear this room: they could make good use of the billiard table, but the furniture must have been stacked in here for decades and it will be a Herculean task.

  Araminta has pulled the dust cloth off the wooden board that protects the baize and slate of the table, and covered it with papers. She has yellow Post-it Notes stuck to various bits.

  ‘I’ve been doing this for a while.’ She pats the top of a thick stack of paper. ‘In preparation. I knew they’d come for us – the fire has given them the impetus to pick a date.’

  I try to push a chest of drawers, the top one missing, up against the wall to make space to stand at the other side of the table to Araminta. It is too much for my palm, recovering under the last piece of gauze. The tattoo of that night smarts and stretches.

  Araminta notices me wincing, she pulls a small stool out from behind the table. ‘Here,’ she says and I sit on it to look at the paperwork.

  It is a maze of legalese, designed – I’m sure – to defend the secrets of the trustees, keep the Common Man or Woman from interfering with the smooth running – or dismantling – of the museum.

  ‘There is a clause,’ Araminta says and points to a piece of paper in the middle of the table, ‘And it will stop them. But it will have to involve Leo talking to them.’

  I don’t dismiss it out of hand. I give the idea some thought, chew it over. I look around the room, and let my thoughts wander around it, check it from all sides. Everything in this room is sport-themed: the paintings are of game birds and retriever dogs; of playing fields and rugby teams. There are aged and faded photographs of cricketers, lined up in order of height and preserved forever in their clean whites and cable-knit jumpers. A wide rack of cues stretches up along the wall like weaponry.

  ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea.’

  I can tell from Araminta’s face that she knew that would be my response. That she expected it from the moment she found the clause: I suspect she agrees with me.

  ‘You’ve already said they’re not nice people – the trustees, I mean. And I can see for myself how pompous Roger is. They’d eat him alive.’

  Araminta picks up a piece of paper, goes to say something.

  ‘And if we do have to leave, after everything we’ve done here, everything we’ve survived – I’d rather he heard it from me at the last possible minute, not from eight strangers intent on tripping him up. And . . .’ I know Patch will be annoyed at me when I tell him about this later, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t the right thing to do. ‘ . . . We are still not on a level playing field.’ My hand throbs. ‘The trustees know what you said to them the day after the fire – Leo and I don’t. So, you’re asking me to let Leo put himself on the line but you still get the right to make arrangements behind our backs.’

  A grandfather clock in the corner of the room chimes four deep and sonorous notes. It punctuates the silence left behind in the wake of my statement.

  ‘I can help you make the tea and the sandwiches: I’ll even get the tables in the library ready for them,’ I say to Araminta. ‘But I can’t help you fight the Board without your total honesty.’

  She stretches her fingers across the edge of the table, her nails are short and neat. The cast on her wrist has been replaced by a short blue support that cushions the heel of her hand. The one diamond ring she wears sparkles under the low-hanging lamp that covers the billiard table. She swallows, once, twice.

  I hold my breath, waiting for her answer. This time she has everything to lose: this time she has to be honest.

  ‘If I could, Cate, I would. I want to more than anything but I simply can’t. I cannot tell you what we discussed.’

  *

  When they arrive, the board members are exactly as I imagined them: to a man. They are penguin-stiff figures in black suits and, like Araminta says, they come from another age. The six current members introduce themselves with a flurry of ‘Your late husband’s second cousin,’ and ‘Third cousin once removed to dear Richard.’ I’ll never decipher which one’s which and I don’t suppose it matters.

  Roger introduces himself with an oily voice, even his handshake drips with it.

  The other two men with them are marginally younger: possibly only mid-to late-seventies. Roger introduces them as the new prospective candidates to fill the post of ‘poor deceased Myles’.

  They bluster around the museum, pointing things out and – as far as I can tell – largely talking nonsense. They certainly haven’t spent the hours I have learning the routes of Colonel Hugo’s expeditions or researching the status-in-the-wild of the species we have. I watch them from a respectful distance and tick off their mistakes in my head: I’d love to set them straight.

  Finally, they reach the library and the arrangement of tables that I helped Araminta to set up last night. We have put four desks together – to seat ten people comfortably – in the centre of the library, directly under the sparkling dome.

  ‘Ms Buchan,’ Roger calls out to Araminta. ‘Could you fetch us a tray of tea?’

  Araminta stands still.

  I step forward under the dome, the warmth hits the top of my head and I flush, my cheeks involuntarily pink, my palms sweaty. ‘I’ll get a volunteer to do it. Araminta and I need to stay for the meeting.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Mrs Morris. That is completely outside the terms of the Trust.’

  I walk towards the archway that leads to the gallery. I know Malcolm is waiting, out of sight, around the corner. ‘We are ready for the tea, thank you,’ I tell him.

  I wear my voice as armour, the voice that has taken strength from the fire. It is important to convince myself as much as them. I look back over my shoulder to make eye contact with Roger. ‘Our presence is absolutely non-negotiable.’

  Roger is noticeably unsettled.

  ‘Please, gentlemen,’ I say. ‘Do take your seats.’

  ‘This is highly irregular.’ Roger goes as pink as me as he blusters but sits down. ‘These are private negotiations, covering sensitive subjects.’

  Araminta puts her hands on the table, her fingers are knitted together, her knuckles white. ‘And, if I know you at all, Roger – and we have known each other for a very long time – your sensitive subject will be nothing more than how quickly can you get your hands on the museum and its contents.’ She looks at me, and I nod.

  ‘Before you begin, gentlemen, there are a couple of things you need to know. Firstly, Araminta and I have worked hard to set the museum back on track after the fire – we have had enormous support from the community and are pleased to tell you that we now have commitments from more volunteers than ever before.’

  They look from one to another, rolling their eyes and being openly rude. I steel myself and continue; I’m so relieved that we didn’t put Leo through this. The back of my neck is moist with sweat.

  ‘We are about to apply for several prestigious grants that would provide new signage and ramps for wheelchair access, as well as more staff and security. The ticket revenues have reached a level where we can start to take on staff – we have one part-time gardener and two assistants in the tea hut.’ I think of Curtis and wonder if he’s what they see when they conjure up a picture of a part-time gardener. ‘This weekend Hatters will feature on the front cover of a national broadsheet’s weekend magazine. This and the social media accounts we are now operating are transforming the fortunes of Hatters. We are, at last, very much on the up.’

  They cough and shuffle, feigning boredom.

  ‘And Araminta and I went through some paperwork last night. Specifically, the terms of Colonel Hugo’s trust.’

  A ripple of controversy goes through the eight men. They turn to each other and whisper – as if Araminta and I weren’t here. The whispers echo loudly around the library – something they obviously hadn’t thought of or didn’t know about.

  ‘Absolutely outrageous’, ‘nonsense’
and ‘upstarts’ rattle round the heads of the moose, the elk, and the bison. Their pointed horns don’t bow or break, their eyes don’t look away: they’re only words, they don’t hurt them.

  Malcolm comes in with the tray of tea. He’s done it beautifully, utterly formally. The silver teapot shines in the glow of the sun, reflects across the sugar bowl, the milk jug, the tiny delicate tongs for removing the lumps of sugar. I raise my eyebrow at him: I want to ask him where on earth he found sugar lumps – and how old they are – but I can’t at the moment. Leo and I made the sandwiches earlier: ludicrously dainty oblongs of white bread with the crusts cut neatly away.

  ‘May I be mother, gentlemen?’ Malcolm asks, warming to his role.

  From the faces of the eight men, I can assume that they’ve never been served tea by a man before.

  ‘According to the terms laid down in Colonel Hugo’s Trust, any family member – and by that, he means “direct descendant” – residing at Hatters takes an immediate 51 per cent of the Trust’s votes,’ Araminta says.

  ‘There hasn’t been a direct descendant here for thirty years,’ Roger shouts.

  ‘Years’ and ‘years’ echoes round the room.

  ‘Until now.’ It is the moment we’ve had to pin our hopes on. Araminta wouldn’t give at all and so it is just her and me here fighting for the house: just the two of us on its side.

  Roger smiles, showing his teeth – and the two men either side of him cross their arms over their chests, lean back in their chairs. Their smiles are poisonous, infected.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Lyons-Morris, but being Richard’s widow doesn’t qualify you for that role.’ Roger rests his hands on the oak desk and it blooms where his sweat marks the varnish.

  ‘But being Richard’s son does.’ Araminta has waited years to say this to the Board. ‘Leo is Hugo’s great-grandson. His direct descendant.’

  Roger closes his palms together and points his fingers under his chin, the sweat silhouettes of his hands remain on the table, a ghost of where he’s been. ‘With all due respect, I believe your son has a mental impairment?’