He ordered coffee at the cafe and decided it would be polite to buy Clare a drink back. He picked camomile tea, hoping it was right.
To his surprise, he found Matt in the reception of Smart Yak, shaking snow from his coat. ‘You made it?’
‘Yeah, I walked to Victoria, and the Tube was running, so …’ Matt said, beaming at Will’s approval. He saw the second cup. ‘Is that for me – cheers.’
Before Will could stop him taking it, the kitchen door opened and Clare exited, holding a steaming mug. Her cheeks were pink, presumably from her spinning class.
‘Hey!’ she said to Will. ‘Did you find everything?’
He saw Matt’s face twitch.
‘Yeah, cheers for that,’ he said.
Clare looked at his chest. ‘And it fits?’
‘Uh, yeah …’
He pulled the T-shirt out from the stomach, and a handful of excess cotton came with it. Matt’s eyes swerved between them.
‘Oh, poor Dave,’ Clare giggled. ‘His pre-Weight Watchers T-shirt. It was all that comfort-eating, from the stress of having to live with me.’
Matt took the top off the second cup. His expression turned to confusion when he saw the camomile tea.
‘Ah, no, this one …’ Will said, swapping it for the coffee.
It was too late. The herbal fragrance filled the corridor.
‘They gave me the wrong one. I’ll go and change it,’ Will said.
Clare smiled. ‘Right. See you later.’
He went outside, and poured the hot camomile tea onto the pavement. A dark patch appeared in the white snow.
Now the lies had started, he didn’t seem to be able to stop.
Hannah finished painting the dining-room walls at around 6 a.m. on Wednesday.
The nausea had not returned, so she’d managed tea and dry toast, around 5.30 a.m.
It was as she was watching the navy sky brighten into day, waiting for the kettle to boil, that she remembered the donkey. Steeling herself, she walked out into the icy new morning and unlocked the garage.
‘Hello, boy.’ She scratched the donkey’s head. ‘Come on outside before Farmer Nasty catches us.’
But the little donkey was wise now. An obstinate glare entered its eyes. When she pulled on the rope, it refused to budge. She cajoled it for a few minutes, gave up, mucked it out, found some grass under the snow to feed it with, went back, cajoled it again and pulled, but the donkey wouldn’t move.
‘Oh, come on!’ Hannah snapped, exhausted. The few wasted minutes had allowed the sky to lighten into grey-violet. On the horizon sat a new shot of washed-out orange. ‘Quick. Or someone will see us.’
By the time she managed to drag the donkey back to its pathetic shelter, the new day was already up, yawning a pale grey. Hannah gave the animal a pat, then scurried away.
There was a movement to her right.
Startled, she ducked behind a bush.
There was someone at the distant edge of the farmer’s field.
It looked like a farm worker or maybe the farmer’s son, tall and bulky, dressed in a hooded top, carrying a heavy bag on bowed shoulders along the fence. He disappeared behind the barn. Hannah stayed still in the bushes, snowy branches soaking her head, till she was sure no one had spotted her.
Then she crept back to the house, fighting the urge to go and complain once again to the farmer. That woman couldn’t get away with this.
Even as Hannah said it to herself, however, she knew that wasn’t strictly true.
Thanks to her doing nothing, that’s exactly what was happening.
She didn’t mean to fall asleep when she returned to Tornley Hall. One minute she was warming up by the little fire she’d made in the hall; the next, she was falling off the sofa with a jerk.
Bang, bang, bang.
Hannah woke shivering. The fire had died.
What time was it?
Bang, bang, bang.
Someone was at the front door.
She sat up. Oh no. Had the farmer or her son seen her with the donkey?
Stumbling up, Hannah went to the hall window.
Dax’s red pickup truck was outside.
Relieved, she opened the door.
Dax stood on the doorstep, holding a pane of glass and a plastic bag. ‘Aye-aye. What you been up to?’
‘Nothing.’ She pushed hair out of her face, suspecting she didn’t smell too good. ‘I was sick. I’m fine. Gosh, is that glass for the window? Thanks.’
‘That’s all right.’ Dax rested the glass against the wall and handed her the plastic bag. ‘Your fella didn’t come back then?’
‘Oh. No,’ she said, opening the bag. Inside was milk and white sugar. She took it out, amused. ‘He still can’t get home … Thanks for this.’
Dax marched past her and bent to test the weight of a shelf unit.
‘Go on then – kettle on!’
She turned. What was he doing?
Dax lifted the shelves upright, experimentally. Then, with a groan, he lifted them a few inches off the floor.
‘Oh, Dax – right. No, you don’t have to …’
But he was already shuffling one of the shelf units through the study doorway. If Will tried that, he’d put his back out.
‘Here?’
‘Thanks.’
With a grunt, Dax placed the shelf unit against one of the four brown patches.
A welcome space appeared on the hall floor.
‘Oh, OK. Thanks,’ Hannah said.
Dax came back and tested the weight of the next unit.
She yawned, too tired to argue.
Leaving him to it, she put on the kettle and leant wearily against the worktop, trying to wake up.
She heard Dax grunting, and wondered if this was a neighbourly favour or whether he expected payment.
Right now, she didn’t care. Her stomach was sore, her shoulders and neck ached, her blister stung and she couldn’t get warm. She didn’t want to see another paintbrush or roller as long as she lived, and Will still wasn’t back. Talking of which …
‘Have you heard how long this snow is going on for, Dax?’
‘Friday,’ he called back.
She made the tea and took it through. In the hall she found Dax carrying the third shelf unit into the study, his forearms straining. The improvement in the hall was already dramatic. A large space had appeared between the boxes, finally exposing the black-and-white tiled floor. Perking up, she followed him into the study. Dax dragged the third unit beside the second. Too late she realized he’d scraped the wooden floor.
She decided not to argue. There was a big dried patch of white paint on it anyway now. They’d stick a rug on it for the moment. And without Will here, she needed all the help she could get.
Dax looked as though he had hardly broken sweat. He raised his eyebrows as he took the tea. ‘You keeping all them books in there?’ He nodded to the sitting room.
‘No,’ she said, sipping her own. The hot sugary liquid helped her dry throat. ‘The Horseborrows’ solicitor rang this morning – apparently they accidentally hired a house-clearance firm that doesn’t take books. They’re going to arrange a specialist bookshop clearance when the snow’s gone.’
‘Worth anything?’
‘Some of them look like they might be. But it all goes to the Horseborrows’ estate, and they’ve left the whole thing to some seafaring charity, so …’ Hannah put down her tea and went to restart the fire in the hall. ‘Did you know them, Dax?’
‘Horseborrows?’ He pronounced it ‘Horsebras’. Everything Dax said sounded sarcastic, as if she was asking him a ridiculous question. ‘Oh yeah. Since I were a kid. Kept an eye on the house for ’em, after my dad died. My granddad was the gardener here. Then my dad.’
‘Oh, really?’ Hannah poured some sump oil onto the fire, thoughtfully. No wonder Dax treated Tornley Hall as if it was his house. His family had clearly been custodians of it for decades; the old village tradition of working-class families serving the ri
ch ones. ‘What were they like?’ Hannah asked, lighting a match. The fire exploded in the grate. ‘The Horseborrows.’ She caught herself saying ‘Horsebras’, as Dax had – an old habit from travelling abroad, to make herself understood.
Dax emerged from the study, took another gulp of tea, then lifted the fourth unit and began manoeuvring it in. ‘What you on about now?’
‘Well, what kind of personalities did they have?’
From his expression, it was obviously another stupid question. ‘They were all right. Olive was Olive, Peter was Peter.’ He grunted as he moved the last unit. She followed him and saw the final patch of brown wallpaper disappear. ‘So, giving it all to charity, are they?’
Hannah wasn’t listening. The study was transformed. White walls, new cream curtains, white shelves waiting for records. On impulse, she searched in a box for the remnant of cherry silk that she’d bought and wrapped the window-seat cushion in it.
She stood back, pleased. The room looked good.
Dax pointed at Will’s boxes of records. ‘Right. These going in now, too?’
‘Oh, yeah, but I can do that.’ Will hated anyone touching his vinyl. He’d even brought it from London in the car, because he didn’t trust the removal men.
But Dax was already lifting the first box and carrying it through. He banged it down and Hannah cringed.
‘Actually, it’s funny,’ she said, lifting the second one gently, to demonstrate how careful they needed to be. ‘I actually found some old photos of the house. I haven’t had a proper look yet, but you should – there might be photos of your granddad and your dad in there.’
Silence fell silent in the study.
She looked up, to see Dax peering out.
‘Where d’you find them?’
‘Under the bookshelves.’
Dax glanced at the sitting-room door, then at her again. He pointed at her box. ‘You should keep them boxes to pack books.’
‘Actually that’s a good idea.’
‘Actually!’ Dax snorted, as if he’d never heard such a stupid word.
Hannah flushed, too tired to think of a rejoinder. She was also starting to notice that she really did need a shower. She placed her box carefully next to Dax’s. ‘They’re quite fragile, these,’ she said. Dax walked off to fetch more records, ignoring her. ‘OK. I’ll be back in a sec,’ she said, giving up. How much harm could he do?
Reluctantly Hannah left the warm hall and ran upstairs with the recently boiled kettle to wash and change into fresh clothes in the bathroom. When she returned, her spirits lifted at the sight of the space in the hall. To her delight she saw that Dax had also stuck the new pane of glass in the window with putty. At this rate, she might be able to paint and finish the hall tomorrow, if Dax would help her move the furniture into the sitting room.
When she arrived downstairs, however, the study was empty.
There was a creak in the sitting room.
Dax stood, his back to her, flicking through the books.
‘Hundreds, in’t there?’ he said, without turning.
‘Yes,’ she replied uncertainly.
They were going to have to have a chat sometime about the way Dax walked around her and Will’s house. Clearly he’d been used to doing it his whole life. But right now, like everything else, it could wait till later.
Till after Barbara.
Without discussing it, Dax did stay, for another two hours. First he carried the rest of the record boxes into the study – rolling his eyes when Hannah hinted again that the boxes needed to be lifted more carefully – then he helped Hannah shift the furniture into the sitting room. Every half-hour he barked orders for more tea. As she still didn’t know whether Dax expected payment, or was just being a helpful neighbour, she bit her tongue and brought it. When the hall was finally cleared – the last few boxes stored in the newly painted dining room – to her surprise Dax took the filler and trowel from Hannah’s decorating box and began to plaster the cracks in the hall ceiling and walls.
‘Oh, I wasn’t going to …’ she started.
‘I’ve just seen the bloody mess you’ve made in there.’ He gestured at the dining room.
He had a point. In the morning light it looked as if a child had painted it last night. She’d have to open the door quickly, then shut it, when Barbara came. Hannah started to unpack the records onto the shelves, relieved to find none were broken, as Dax filled in the cracks.
They worked in silence. It didn’t feel uncomfortable. Dax clearly wasn’t interested in small talk, and she was tired.
‘So when’s your mate, Madonna, coming then?’ Dax called eventually, from up the ladder.
‘Sorry?’
‘Oh, they’re all on about it, over at the Fox. A record producer, your bloke, is he? Gemma’s got herself all worked up. Thinks she’s going to be delivering post to rock stars.’
Hannah stopped filing the records. How did everyone know about Will’s job? Had Laurie been gossiping, or Brian?
‘Er, no – he doesn’t do Madonna. His clients are more likely to come on the train, actually. Or borrow their mum’s car.’
She smiled at her own joke, but if Dax thought it was funny, he didn’t respond.
‘Where’s he going to do it – in the garage?’
‘Yeah. He’s got to convert it first, though.’
‘Jonno over in Snadesdon – he’s the builder.’
‘Well, we’re a bit of a way off that yet, but …’
Hannah started on a box of blues vinyl. She knew Will would reshelve it later in some anal order, but for now it would do.
Dax gave a heavy sigh. ‘Right.’
The ladder creaked.
‘Couple of hours.’ He appeared in the doorway, and handed her sandpaper. ‘Then give it a bit of that.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And make sure you do it.’ He opened the front door. ‘You can keep that sugar.’
‘Oh. That’s very kind of you,’ Hannah said, biting back a smile.
She surveyed Dax’s work in the hall. Delicate white spiders’ webs of filler criss-crossed the walls and ceiling. If she and Will had done it, it would have taken all night. The task ahead suddenly felt less daunting than it had in the depths of last night.
‘Honestly, Dax, this is brilliant,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’
‘Honestly,’ Dax repeated, with another snort.
She watched him, disconcerted. He reminded her of men she’d known as a child down at the docks with Dad. Straightforward, direct. Living in a city, she realized, had filled her own sentences with clarifying clauses. ‘I mean, honestly, actually, I have to say’, and so on, as she tried – along with everyone else – to squeeze past other people in a crowded city, apologizing, checking she’d been understood, wanting things done, not wanting to give offence by accident.
Out here, language was clear-cut, practical and used to get things done.
‘So. Tomorrow,’ Dax said, walking out.
Tomorrow? Why tomorrow? She was too exhausted to ask.
‘Oh, OK. Great. Thanks.’ She waved him off and shut the door. Two hours ago the hall had been a mess. Now, miraculously, it was clear and the walls were prepared for painting, and the tiles ready to be cleaned.
Filled with renewed energy, Hannah decided to go and hang curtains in the guestroom while the filler was drying.
She was up the ladder at the window when she heard the donkey.
Someone had untied it, and it was ambling miserably through the snow, halfway between Tornley Hall and the farm.
She dropped the curtains. The poor little thing looked hungry. This was her fault. If she’d rung the RSPCA, it would be somewhere warm now, being properly looked after.
Frustrated, Hannah fetched her phone and switched it to video mode. At least she could keep gathering evidence. But when she tried to film it, snow drifted onto the windowpane, obscuring her view. Checking that no one on the farm was around, she lifted the catch and banged the rotten old frame open, show
ering new paint flakes into the garden below. Leaning out, Hannah refocused the phone. She filmed the field, to show the donkey walking in the snow, then zoomed in on its wet blanket and its shoddy shelter.
Suddenly, a figure walked into the background of the shot.
Hannah dived down and waited a second, before peering back over the windowsill.
The person was still there – a large, bulky figure walking fast along the far end of the field. Hannah lifted her phone carefully and zoomed in. It was Farmer Nasty, wearing that same cap and waistcoat, despite the snow. Ahead of her Hannah now saw the figure in the hooded jacket from this morning, just behind the hedge. Her son, or perhaps a farm worker?
To her shock, Farmer Nasty picked up speed and began to run at the other person, her hands flying in the air. Her head was bobbing, as if she was shouting. Hannah took her eye from the viewfinder and tried to listen.
Nothing. It was too far away.
She carried on filming. The woman pushed the man hard. He nearly fell over. Her hands flew in the air, gesticulating.
This was bad. Farmer Nasty was clearly abusive, and not just to animals.
Then, without warning, the farmer swung round. Hannah found herself looking right at the woman’s face through the viewfinder.
She dived to the floor. Had she seen her?
The guestroom window lay wide open. To her annoyance, Hannah realized she had seen this same window from Farmer Nasty’s farmyard. That meant the farmer could see it now, lying open in the snow, even if she couldn’t see Hannah’s face or the phone.
Hannah sat on the floor and ran back the footage. And there it was: the farmer swivelling round to glare at Tornley Hall, her face a featureless blob.
Hannah peered. There was something about her hands. One was clenched like a fist. The other was …
Hannah squinted. Was that a middle finger?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
That Wednesday afternoon, in London, Will and Matt continued working on ‘Carrie’.
Matt miraculously managed to find two session players in west London who could walk though the snow to lay down the strings. They were concentrating on that for so long it took Will a while to realize that his normally cheerful assistant was subdued.
The Hidden Girl Page 10
