Empty Nest

by Marty Wingate

  “I don’t know, Julia,” Rosy said as she led me over to her chair, my head wrapped in a towel. “You might want to try it—a bit of gold running through your hair would brighten it so. You’re just at that age where it would be lovely.” Rosy had made the mistake early on of trying to pinpoint my age—she’d been off by a couple of years, and not on the good side. These days she stepped carefully. I tried not to mind being labeled “near forty” as long as we remembered that milestone wouldn’t be reached for another couple of years.

  “I don’t think so, Rosy—no highlights yet. But perhaps we could revisit it next cut?”

  “Right you are. Now,” she said, whipping out a comb and scissors, “same as usual?”

  —

  Well, then—there I was in the village, hair cut and styled in an easy bob with my fringe still hanging just a bit in my eyes. TIC closed, no desire to go back to the Hall. What now? I buttoned my coat and pulled my bag up on my shoulder and let my feet carry me down the high street to my Pipit Cottage.

  My spirits lifted at the sight of the plastic cover torn away from the door and two workers in the kitchen. I put my head in.

  “Hello,” I called. “This is my cottage—hard at work?”

  The two practically jumped to attention at my declaration.

  “Yes, miss, you see, the difficulty was with the oak beams.” He nodded up to the ceiling, which had been stripped of centuries of plaster just as the walls had. “His Lordship was quite particular with how we were to carry out repairs, and we were to find oak beams of the right age, in keeping with this terrace.”

  The other one chimed in. “And we said we could do, but it might take time, but this morning his Lordship rang and said to get on it now and the devil take the cost. We’ve had to stop our other jobs.”

  A miasma of emotions overcame me—a pang of guilt at my selfishness mixed with a wave of gratitude at Linus’s response and a flame of hope that I’d be back in my own home before long. I’d cook a lovely meal to celebrate—a warm, inviting autumn menu. I could almost smell the roasting potatoes and the woodsy scent of thyme. Michael would know just the right wine to bring.

  The momentary lightness in my heart faded as I realized my mistake—Michael wouldn’t come to dinner. And why should he after I did such a fine job of pushing him away?

  “Right, well, carry on. And thanks.” I stood on the pavement and looked up and down the high street before heading for the green. It seemed to take me forever, as if I were a windup toy going slower and slower. My mainspring came completely uncoiled just as I reached my usual bench. I didn’t sit, didn’t move. I had turned to stone, and I would stand there forever while the rest of the world carried on round me. The sky dimmed as I contemplated my bleak future.

  No, the sky actually dimmed—an enormous black cloud had appeared so suddenly that I thought my dark mood had created it. Then I realized what I saw.

  Starlings—thousands of them. A murmuration. Not the rarest of sights, but always breathtaking. The birds moved as a single entity, like a giant shape-shifter, a cloud that swelled and shrank as they flew—wheeling, soaring, rising, and falling like dark liquid. My mum had always said that a murmuration reminded her of a lava lamp she had as a child—amorphous blobs in a tank of liquid that floated, separated, came together, and divided again.

  I stood mesmerized by the event, and as I watched, I noticed a lone bird off to the side—larger than a starling. It made straight for the massive murmuration, and my heart leapt in my throat. A sparrow hawk, taking advantage of the situation. It flew at the birds, piercing the cloud in an instant. I gasped and covered my mouth, but the starlings seemed to take little notice—they closed ranks, moving off to continue their show further on. The sparrow hawk slowly soared away—I couldn’t look at it, afraid to know if it had been successful.

  My chest heaved, and I couldn’t catch my breath, as if I’d been a part of the hunt myself. The sky grew quiet, and a heavy gloom wrapped round me as I pondered the disaster that was my life. What’ve I done to myself?

  I left the green, an urgency sending me past the tea room and my cottage, dodging sandwich boards that sat on the pavement outside shops and with not a glance at the TIC. Two streets past Akash’s corner shop and up a lane of well-tended detached cottages. I stopped at one, turned up the walk, and rang the bell. A moment later, the door opened to comfort, warmth, and light, causing tears to burst forth and course down my cheeks.

  “Oh, Vesta,” I said, drawing a ragged breath. “I’ve made such a mess of things—what am I to do?”

  Chapter 35

  “Here now,” Vesta said, setting down a plate of custard cream biscuits beside the teapot. She put her hand over mine. “Better?”

  I nodded and smiled. She had held me until I had stopped crying, then sent me into the loo to wash my face. Now, settled at the table, I sighed.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong. I feel so hopeless. I can’t concentrate and look”—I dug in my bag and pulled out my partially eaten lunch—“Sheila made me this lovely sandwich, and I don’t even want to eat it.”

  Vesta held the back of her hand to my forehead. “No fever. You’ve great upheaval in your life at the moment, Julia. Away from your cottage, the tragedy at the Hall. And Michael.”

  I reached for a biscuit and dunked it in my tea.

  “Have you spoken with him?” she asked. I shook my head. “Do you want to?”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “Well, then, you’ve a task ahead of you.”

  Quite a task—dismantling the roadblock I’d so carefully installed.

  “Stay to dinner, why don’t you?” Vesta asked. “Akash will be in soon—we would love it.”

  It was only then the gloom that surrounded me lifted enough that I noticed the recent additions to the interior of Vesta’s cottage. A pair of men’s slippers under the bench at the front door, a flat cap hanging from the hook.

  “Vesta, I didn’t know.”

  “Well, he was only living above the shop—two small rooms. It seemed for the best that he move in here.” The pink tint to Vesta’s cheeks perfectly matched her champagne-rinsed hair. “And I’m quite happy he did.”

  I rang Sheila with my excuses, followed by the more difficult call to Linus. Two evenings in a row I’d skipped dinner at the Hall. “It’s only that I found myself in the village,” I said to him, “and stopped to see Vesta. Well, time got away from us. You don’t mind, do you?”

  The anger flared up in his voice. “I will not have Isabel drive you away from here.”

  “No, Linus, please—it isn’t her.” Well, only partly so. “I won’t be late; I’ll see you in the kitchen for cocoa.”

  —

  My spirits slightly buoyed by my promise to Vesta—talk to Michael—and my reprieve from an evening with Isabel, I enjoyed dinner and did justice to a small portion of chicken curry.

  “We’ll run you up to the Hall,” Akash said as I buttoned up my coat.

  “No, I’m all right. It’ll do me good, the walk.”

  “But there are no lights on the road past the bridge.”

  “Yes, but I have my tiny trusty torch.” I held it up, no bigger than a lipstick.

  The village was quiet as I made my way through, although cars clustered round the Royal Oak, across the green, and further on near the Stoat and Hare. Occasionally a car passed me on the road, but traffic was light on a Monday evening gone ten o’clock. I approached the bridge and heard a car coming up behind me. I slowed my pace, waiting for it to overtake me before I crossed the road. The car slowed, too. A pricking sensation crept up my arms as I cut my eyes back over my shoulder to see the car staying not twenty feet behind me. I was on the bridge now, walking on the narrow path between the bridge wall and road. I sped up, not knowing what sort of game the driver played at, but unwilling to be caught where I couldn’t escape. When I hurried, the car picked up its speed ever so slightly.

  Darkness loomed on the other side of the bridge where
the streetlights ceased. What would I do when I reached the end of the light—dash into the hedge on the left and tumble down into the brook? Turn and face my stalker?

  A horn honked and I jumped, steeling myself for the worst. But the horn came from another car, behind my stalker—someone too impatient with this snail’s pace. The car that had been dogging me wheeled around, tires screeching, and sped off in the other direction, turning down a lane before I could even identify the make.

  I leaned against the waist-high wall, breathing heavily, and waited to regain strength in my legs as the other car had continued on its way. My mind raced trying to make sense of what happened, and several minutes passed before I inhaled deeply and stood straight again. I made certain the road was empty before I scooted across and up the drive to the Hall by bright starlight, unable to keep from checking over my shoulder or to shake off the fear of pursuit. It came to me that ever since it had happened, I’d been banging on about Freddy’s death and poisoned sparrow hawks for all to hear. Had someone heard who shouldn’t’ve and thought I needed to be kept quiet?

  But by the time I reached the courtyard, breathing easier, I’d demoted the incident to a figment of my imagination or harassment by an unknown person from off the estate. I was safe, unharmed—I had invented a sinister agenda where none existed. If the group of rowdy boys in the village had been old enough to drive, I would’ve blamed them—they’re always an easy target.

  —

  “Are they all in there?” I whispered to Thorne, nodding toward the library as I slid out of my coat in the entry.

  “The household scattered to the four winds after dinner, Ms. Lanchester,” he replied.

  I glanced round the entry, the silence of the Hall pulsing in my ears.

  “Well, Thorne,” I said too loudly, searching for a safe subject to fill the space with normality. “Record number of red-throated divers seen on the coast in Essex—did you read the item?”

  Thorne took up the topic of birds and we chatted for a few minutes until a rattle of china turned my head. Sheila emerged from the library, coffee tray in hand. When she passed us, I felt a wave of cold air from outdoors.

  “No one’s touched a drop,” she said.

  Cecil appeared from somewhere in the back of the house, shedding his coat, and a moment later, Addleton came out of the corridor that led to the kitchen, wiping his hands on a cloth. When he saw Sheila he said, “The threads are nearly stripped on the hot tap at the sink, Mrs. Bugg. We’ll need to put out word for a replacement—if any exist for that model.”

  Isabel emerged from the same corridor as Addleton, bringing more cold air. She looked round at the group and raised her eyebrows. “Are we starting a tour of the Hall? Where is Linus?”

  “His Lordship is taking some air,” Thorne said.

  The door creaked open and Linus walked in. “Is there something wrong?” he asked, looking from face to face.

  Heads shook, voices murmured. A fearful thought dashed in my mind as I looked at the people around me—where had they all been when I was walking across the bridge with a car hot on my heels? I shook my head, and it turned into a shiver. Stop it, Julia. Where had this paranoia come from? My low spirits were playing tricks on me.

  “The coffee’s gone cold,” Sheila said. “I can do another pot.”

  “No,” Linus said. “There’s no need.”

  I desperately wanted out of the front entry and into my room. I began edging round the group toward the stairs.

  “Julia, your day off went well?” Linus asked.

  I smiled and nodded. “Linus, I believe we should have all the footpaths on the estate reassessed and re-signed. And pave a few for disability access, don’t you think?”

  “You didn’t lose your way again, did you, Ms. Lanchester?” Addleton asked.

  I threw him a look. “No, Mr. Addleton, I found my way back from the village with no trouble,” I said, and turned back to Linus. “Did you know that Mr. Addleton has been helping the police by looking for the pesticide that killed the sparrow hawks? It’s very good of you,” I said to the agent. Did I mean to goad him? Probably. At least I didn’t include Freddy’s name.

  Isabel gave Addleton a sharp look. “You have open access across the estate, don’t you, Mr. Addleton?”

  He looked back at her, and I had to admire his frank gaze. “It’s part of my duty, my Lady. But I don’t go where I don’t have permission.”

  —

  Later in the kitchen, I set the milk on to simmer and spooned cocoa into two mugs. Linus didn’t knock this time, but he did look over his shoulder before closing the door. I wondered should I get out a third mug for Isabel.

  We settled at the table.

  “I’m sorry I missed dinner,” I said.

  He smiled. “No one can blame you for wanting a pleasant meal. I’m surprised Addleton came.”

  “Thorne said you’d taken a walk,” I said.

  “I went down the path I’ve seen you take, hoping I’d meet you coming back—you really shouldn’t walk alone this late. I returned by way of the drive. You were all right, weren’t you—walking?”

  “Of course I was.” As if I was going to add to his troubles by telling some tale about being followed. “But I did get lost earlier today,” I confessed with a smile. “I’d gone over to visit Adam and wanted to walk into the village from the orchard. Mr. Addleton came across me sitting on a stile eating my lunch.”

  “It’s no wonder,” Linus said. “Those signs are ancient. We’ll get them replaced.”

  “Linus, where did Mr. Addleton say he came from?”

  “Dorset—a house called Monks Barton.”

  “And the people—what was their name again?”

  “Drake,” Linus replied. “Tony and Nan Drake.”

  I wondered if Freddy Peacock had ties in Dorset.

  “Why ever did he want to come all this way for a new position?” What I really wanted to know was how he picked the Fotheringill estate out of the hat. Estates this size covered the English countryside, and we couldn’t be so well known that Addleton had singled it out as the one place he’d like to be agent.

  “He’s no family, but said he thought he’d like to come back to this area again.”

  “Yes, right—you said he came from Essex.” We were quiet as we finished our cocoa. I hated to disturb Linus—he had leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out under the table and looked more comfortable than I’d seen him in ages. But we couldn’t spend the night holed up in the kitchen.

  —

  I climbed into bed, phone in hand. After staring at the screen for several minutes, I began a text to Michael. “Filming going well?” Delete. “Cornwall accommodations satisfactory?” What was I, a holiday booking service? Delete. “I’m sorry. I miss you.” My thumb hovered above the screen before cowardice overtook me. Delete.

  Chapter 36

  How did I get into this? I thought the next afternoon. My cardigan sleeves had been pushed up, and a thick, cold, wet coating of flour paste covered my arms from elbows to the tips of my fingers. I held up a torn strip of newspaper and asked Willow, “Now where?”

  Willow, too, was up to her elbows in flour paste. She smoothed out a strip of paper she’d just applied, and ended up with a great wodge of paste on her finger. When she shook her hand, the paste plopped onto the toes of her green socks, sticking out of her sandals. She wiped the rest on her apron. Why wasn’t I wearing an apron?

  Willow nodded to a pillar, one of four that rose from the great hulk of chicken wire and gluey newspaper. “There, you can finish off the turret on the north wing.”

  “Lovely,” I said, making the mistake of scratching my nose. “That’s just over my room.”

  There, in all its papier-mâché glory, stood Hoggin Hall. That morning, Willow had careered in the door of the TIC with the wire form, almost as big as she was. At that point, it didn’t look much like the Hall—and now, two layers of wet paper later, it still didn’t. But Willow had as
sured Vesta and me that once dried and painted, anyone would recognize it as the Hall. She said it would be an eye-catching addition to the front window of the tourist center, and a way of promoting the papier-mâché activity center in the church hall during the Christmas Market, where children could create their own ornaments.

  Willow had taken possession of our entire back work area for the project, muscling Vesta and me to the front. I sent Vesta home at lunch. I’d got my sandwich from Akash today, not wanting to bother Sheila with sorting something out, and I had a few bites while standing in the loo, watching Willow brandish a hair dryer on the initial layer of newspaper strips. She had begun applying the second layer at about four o’clock, and I had not been able to stand it any longer.

  “Let me help.”

  And so, there I was up to my elbows in flour paste—it felt vaguely therapeutic—when Cecil walked in.

  “Ah, oh. Am I disturbing something?” He squinted his eyes at the shapeless hulk that occupied the table. “Is that the Hall?”

  “Gosh, yes, Mr. Fotheringill—well spotted,” Willow said. “Mind you, once we’ve…I’ve painted it and lined out the bricks and all, it’ll be amazing. We’ll put it in the window.”

  Cecil turned to look at the shallow shelf. “This window?”

  Willow looked at the space available and back at the model. “Hmmm,” she said.

  “Julia,” Cecil said, “I have seven names for you—people from the farms—who’d like to help with the Boxing Day Bird Count. I told them they’d hear from you first thing tomorrow.”

  “That’s grand, Cecil—just drop the list there on the counter, and I’ll take care of it.”

  Cecil didn’t move. “I don’t actually have a list—I can tell you their names.”