by Karen Swan
‘Trying to.’
Gilmore looked back at Ottie, before looking back expectantly at Bertie again, as though awaiting his explanation for being here.
‘Yes, I, uh, I came to check on Miss Lorne here, as she missed the briefing just now and she is one of our stewards tomorrow.’
‘I’m afraid I was waiting for Mr Gilmore to check in,’ she said. ‘His plane was delayed but unfortunately he didn’t communicate that to me, so I was just explaining how I had to give his pitch to another couple.’
‘Ah.’ Bertie gave a suitably pained look but Ottie could see how he relaxed now her absence had been explained. ‘How unfortunate.’
Ottie looked at Ben, wanting him to squirm some more but he seemed to be done for now. He had a very candid manner, she noticed. Was it an American thing? She gave a sigh. Who cared? ‘Anyway, given the race is starting in less than twelve hours, and he’s highly unlikely to find anything at all at this late stage, I’ve said he can pitch his tent in the garden overnight instead.’
‘In the garden? Yes, I see,’ Bertie said. ‘Well, that’s very generous of you.’
‘It’s only for tonight,’ she shrugged. ‘He’ll be running through tomorrow night and then will move it by first thing on Sunday. Won’t you, Mr Gilmore?’
He nodded back, but was regarding her with a look that she didn’t appreciate – as though he knew this was all a charade. But there was no way he possibly could. It was her paranoia getting the better of her, that was all. Bertie’s alibi was highly plausible, especially as it had been prompted by Gilmore’s own actions.
She looked back at Bertie, eager to get this stranger off her doorstep and out of the way. The clock was always ticking . . . ‘You said you wanted to discuss the stewarding, Bertie?’ she asked disingenuously as he began to shuffle slightly, trying to dodge the rain.
He looked straight at her, the dance already in his eyes. ‘I did.’
‘Well, if you’ll excuse us then, Mr Gilmore,’ she said, stepping back to allow her lover in.
Gilmore looked at them both, before slowly reaching down to pick up his bag. ‘There’s just one more thing,’ he said as she had almost closed the door.
She sighed. ‘Yes?’ she asked impatiently, peering her head back through the crack.
‘Where do I get a key for the toilet and shower blocks?’
For pity’s sake. Suppressing another sigh, she reached for her own key on the hook. ‘Use mine and put it through the letterbox in the morning,’ she said with a tight smile.
And before he could say another word, she closed the door, shutting out the wind, the rain and his damnable all-knowing stare.
Chapter Eight
Saturday, 7 December
‘Toast?’
Her mother didn’t reply, her legs curled up on the blue gingham window seat as she looked out over the gardens. She was still wearing her dressing gown, even though it was almost lunchtime, and she hadn’t washed her hair since the funeral, faint smudges of mascara below her eyes. It was as though she had held herself together till that, but after the reading of the will, had allowed herself to slide into gentle ruin.
Still, at least Mrs Mac had talked her into leaving her room.
‘Mam?’ Willow tried again.
‘Huh? What?’ Her mother turned to face her. She had visibly lost weight over the past week and a half, her cheeks hollowing, the skin pulling down at the corners of her eyes.
‘I asked if you were hungry. I’m making some toast.’ It was all she could do not to snap the words.
‘Oh. No. Not hungry.’ She turned and looked out of the window again.
Willow put the bread in the toaster anyway and rummaged in the larder for the marmalade. She poured a fresh pot of tea and brought it over, carefully setting a mug in her mother’s cold hands. ‘Drink up. You’re freezing sitting by the window. Why don’t you sit by the Aga?’
‘I like having the view,’ she said quietly, resting her head against the wall.
Willow sighed, leaning against the Aga rail herself as she waited for the toast to pop up. She gazed around the room, wondering for how many years – generations even – this very scene had been playing. Mabel and Dot were in their usual places on the rugs, muzzles nestled between muddy paws after their morning bound around the grounds, eyelids drooping heavily. The kitchen had never been decorated in her lifetime, the cream wooden units and oak worktops were unfashionable and dull, but not offensive in any way, crackle-glazed farmyard tiles around the wall. She couldn’t remember a time when those banded creamware jugs hadn’t been sitting on the shelf above the ancient yellow solid-fuel Aga, and she had no idea how the crack in the bottom windowpane beside the herb pots had happened – an exuberant child or an oblivious robin? There were pails of seasoned logs and the old yellowing newspapers heaped in a basket, ready to be used to set the many fires, must surely date back years at the very bottom, for they only ever took from the top; the 1950s cookbooks with cloth covers and turned-down pages dealt in imperial measures. It was like a time capsule in here, she thought to herself, the only recent addition being a small enamel bucket newly placed on the floor in the corner by the pantry; she looked up at the ceiling above it and the bloom of damp spreading along the plaster. There were other buckets in the billiards room and many of the bedrooms too.
She looked at her mother again, slight and still against the window. If there was history caught and captured within these battlemented walls, it was also a living history – her mother’s own story. This had been the beating heart of her home when her family had been gathered all around her, children playing quite literally at her knee as she devised menus for the dinner party that weekend and Mrs Mac cooked and ironed – those halcyon days of childhood and golden family time before they had all treacherously grown up, before Willow had left for city life, before her husband had died. Everyone abandoning her.
The toast popped up – the signature scent of the kitchen, Willow always thought; even in Dublin it made her pause, dragging her mind and heart back here. She sparingly spread the marmalade across the top, the way she knew her mother liked it.
‘Eat up,’ she said, taking the tea from her mother’s hands and replacing it with the plate instead. ‘You must keep your strength up, Mam.’
‘But I’m not hungry.’
‘Eat anyway.’ Willow clambered onto the other end of the window seat with her own tea and sat opposite, making sure their feet didn’t touch. She felt a silent spike of anger as she watched her mother dispassionately chew, realizing she was doing precisely what her father had always done – looking after her, protecting her. She looked so vulnerable there, as soft as pillows, small as a pocket – it seemed barely believable that she could have been the architect of so much pain and suffering. Willow supposed she was finding out first-hand now, what it felt like to have her destiny determined by another, her future ripped out of her own hands. She was treading in the very same footsteps she had forced her own daughter to make but she wasn’t making a decent fist of it. Her mother was falling where Willow had risen. Willow supposed there had to be some satisfaction in that. Somewhere.
It was the first time they had been alone together since that day in the library when her father’s will had been read and despite the indisputable fact that her mother was disabled by grief, Willow was also convinced her mother was avoiding her. Everyone was. They had all blown to their separate corners of the estate like petals in a storm. Ottie hadn’t come up to the castle once in the past few days, and Pip was edgy around her too, blowing hot and cold, her words telling her one thing, her eyes quite another. Mrs Mac kept saying they all just needed time to adjust. But what about her? Who was helping her to adjust?
Besides, time – like money – was something else they didn’t have. Like those buckets catching drips, the estate problems would soon start mounting up and multiplying. Heavy weather was forecast for this weekend and they were only just coming into the depths of winter. Nothing was going to get be
tter any time soon and existing problems were going to feel magnified – heating costs, leaks . . .
Willow took a deep breath, steeling herself to say what had to be said. ‘So you remember we’ve got the team from Christie’s coming this morning?’
Only the vaguest surprise registered on her mother’s face. ‘Christie’s?’
‘Yes. Mrs Mac said she told you when she brought in your breakfast yesterday.’
‘Oh. Yes.’ She gave a sigh. ‘If you say so.’
As if on cue, Mrs Mac came through with the water jug for the iron. She filled it up wordlessly, but glanced over at Serena with a concerned look, arching an eyebrow at Willow as she passed on her way back out again.
‘It’s very informal, just an exploratory chat at this stage. If we don’t like what they have to say, then we don’t have to go any further with it. No pressure. They’ll just want to get a sense of what we might include in an auction. Have you had a think about what you would want to keep?’
Her mother didn’t reply, her eyes following a starling hopping on the ground. Was she even listening?
Willow bit back the spear of fury that lanced through her. ‘Well anyway, if there’s enough to justify it, then they’ll arrange an estate sale, probably on site, and if not, then they’ll enlist the bits and bobs for various specialist sales.’
Still nothing.
‘At the same time, the realty expert will be looking around the estate, assessing the land and buildings to give us an indication for asking price and marketing strategy.’
Her mother leaned her head back against the wall again as though supporting herself was too much; she had forgotten to keep chewing and for several moments she sat motionless as she stared out at the glistening band of sea.
‘Mam?’ Willow prompted.
‘Hmm?’ she asked, beginning to chew automatically again as she was brought back into the moment.
‘It’s going to be my friend Helena Talbot coming to talk to us.’
‘What is?’
Oh dear God. ‘The Christie’s representative. She’s a friend from ho—’ She stopped herself just in time but her mother’s eyes were suddenly, reflexively, upon her; she’d heard the slip. That she’d heard and for a moment, the dark truth that had never been spoken came and sat between them, filling the space like a fat purring cat. Would her mother say something now? Would she acknowledge it? Say she knew why she’d run? The moment swelled, tautened –
Popped.
Her mother’s eyes swivelled down and Willow swallowed, feeling the rejection of so much more than a conversation.
‘She’s from Dublin. She went to school with Caz, my flatmate.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Yes.’ It was like talking to the wall. More silence, but this time it held nothing. ‘And then I thought, later, you and I could go over to the Dower House and take a look around together. I popped by yesterday. I hadn’t seen the place in years.’
‘No. No, I don’t think I’d want to do that.’
‘But, Mam—’
‘I don’t care what O’Leary says. Your father did not intend for me to end up in that dark, dingy house,’ her mother snapped.
Willow felt herself fall back into the numbness that had become the best course for dealing with her mother. ‘It’s not dingy, though, that’s the thing. It’s actually very pretty. Of course it’s overgrown at the moment, but I had a good look around and I think if we got Ted Flaherty to take down some of the trees, it’d make a big difference. The house is only dark because it was built in the middle of the copse, but you could cut down a swathe or even remove the whole lot. The lawn’s level there and with the trees gone, you’d get a view of the headland. Plus it’s close to the village over there. You’d be able to walk in, no problem.’
‘No.’
Willow stared at her mother. This was the conversation her father had tried to avoid, the one he’d left her to have instead. She was to be Bad Cop? Fine. ‘Mam, we’ve gone over this. We have to sell.’
‘No.’
‘Yes, there’s no other choice. We cannot afford to stay. We have to sell it, get a good price, take our memories and move on. It’s time.’
She knew her mother – pampered, spoilt, indulged, too-loved – had no idea of the reality facing the estate. The castle – now that the decay had begun – was beginning to deteriorate rapidly; they had to sell before it got any worse. Had her mother ever left her room she would have known that each day since the reading of the will, Willow had met up with O’Leary to go through the probate in more detail. Her father had left the paperwork in good shape, but it was clear her mother didn’t have the first idea of how precarious their financial position really was; her father had protected her from everything. ‘What about the original buyer – do you think he might still be interested?’
Her mother looked back at her blankly, before a seed of recognition dawned. ‘You mean the Englishman?’
Jeesht. Not again. ‘Does it matter what nationality he is?’
‘It mattered to your father. Very much.’
‘Well . . .’ Willow wondered how to phrase this. Bluntly? ‘We might have to overlook the unfortunate fact of his place of birth. Beggars can’t afford to be choosers. There’s not many people who want, much less can afford, an Irish castle at the best of times – and we all know these are not the best of times.’
Her mother shook her head, engaged now at least. Indignation was seemingly the only thing to rouse her from her torpor. ‘He wouldn’t be interested. He and your father parted on very unsavoury terms.’
Willow wasn’t interested in making new friends. ‘Do you remember his name?’
‘No, but even if I did, you’re not to call him. He was awful. Your father died hating him: arrogant, cocky, r—’
‘Rich?’
‘I was going to say rash.’
‘Well, rich is all that matters. We don’t need to like the guy. We just need him to buy this place and take it off our hands.’
Her mother looked back at her with the focus that had been missing for the past week and a half. ‘Is it really that straightforward for you? Something simply to be dealt with?’
‘I’ve had the meetings with O’Leary, you haven’t. It’s a burden, Mam.’
‘No, it’s our home. Your home.’
Her mother flinched as Willow gave a bitter laugh and the fat cat stretched and purred between them again; it was always there, even if sometimes it was out of sight.
They stared at one another, Willow feeling a pressure rise in her chest, the anger like a heat and warming her up. She felt her breath become shallow, the pertinent question her mother wouldn’t ask shimmering in front of them both like a knife, ready to cut and wound. Just waiting . . .
Mrs Mac walked back into the kitchen, carrying the ironing board under one arm and tutting about the spitting rain wetting her sheets.
The bubble popped again and this time it was Willow who looked away first. She tried to recover herself, forcing her breathing to become slow and steady again before looking back at her mother like she was the child. ‘You should get dressed now, Mam.’
Willow shut the door to the library and quietly crossed over to the desk, her breathing still coming quickly, the torrent of adrenaline from dealing with her mother still pumping in her bloodstream. It had become her room in the intervening days since the will had been read, towers of files and paperwork arranged in piles on the desk and on the floor, neon Post-its fluttering on top like road signs telling her where to go.
She sat in the chair and cast an impassive gaze around the room from the hallowed spot. This wasn’t just where her father would conduct his business affairs, but where he ‘couldn’t be interrupted’, where all the difficult phone conversations had happened, where her own life had fallen apart.
Her eyes fell to the desk and the A4 black mock-croc, leather-bound diary positioned to one side, the tip of a ribbon peeking through the gilt-ended pages like a snake’s tongue; h
er father always used to buy the same model every year from Smythson, his initials stamped in the bottom-right corner. Perhaps she would do the same. That, at least, might be a family tradition they could keep to.
With a grim determination she began to flick through, working backwards and trying not to be pained by the very sight of his handwriting. What would her father have written to record the meeting with the man who wanted to buy his castle, she mused as she turned over the pages. She didn’t suppose he’d have explicitly written Buyer to help her in posterity.
Still, an appointments diary, she saw, was a surprisingly intimate record of a person’s life, and she felt her heart begin to beat a little faster as she scanned over the noted meetings, lunches and dinners that had shaped his final days: 2 November, dentist; 26 October, golf, Bertie; 23 October, Rotary Club dinner; 18 October, Mr Hopwood, Mercy University Hospital; 17 October, MRI; 15 October, Cycle, Bertie; 14 October, GP; 2 October, shooting, Dunmorgan estate . . .
She paused suddenly.
Wait. Hadn’t O’Leary said when it first came up that the sale had been negotiated around Easter time? She flicked straight back to March and thumbed forwards instead . . . stopping eventually on 15 April, C. Shaye, 11 a.m. There was nothing to illuminate her on C. Shaye’s business with her father but the telephone number beside it had a London dial code.
She stared at it. Worth a punt, surely?
So her father had hated him. So what? So he was an Englishman. So what? What did it matter if he was a rich Englishman coming over here to do what his ancestors had not – take what he wanted, not with force but the silent exchange of cash. Was that worse, a victory seven hundred years in the making?
She grabbed her mobile and dialled.
He answered on the first ring. ‘Yep.’ The voice was brisk, distracted.
It took her a second to find her own voice. ‘. . . Hello, Mr Shaye?’
‘Who is this?’ She could almost hear the frown in his voice, everything in it her father hated: imperiousness, arrogance, superiority . . . Immediately she knew why he’d hated him.
