by Thorne Moore
He was standing on the wide slate step, hands in pockets, gazing out across the valley in the limpid evening light. He turned as the door creaked open.
Sophisticated. Handsome. Witty. Athletic…
At least that’s what I’d thought when I first met him, twelve years before. I noticed the beginning of middle-aged girth. ‘Hello, Mr Lawrence.’
‘Hello, Mrs Lawrence.’
‘So. You found me.’ I stepped back. ‘You’d better come in.’
‘Thank you.’ Peter followed me through to the drawing room and stopped short, shaking his head over the Gothic fireplace. ‘My God. Pure Strawberry Hill. Where did Sylvia find this place?’
‘It found her, I think. Sit down, it’s not a museum.’
He hesitated. I took solitary possession of the chaise longue to avoid any misunderstanding. Peter perched on the sofa’s edge. ‘I wasn’t sure what sort of reception I’d get. Thought you might just slam the door in my face.’
‘Am I that petty?’
‘I didn’t mean that. But I kept leaving messages on your phone and you never got back to me.’
‘Sorry. Crap signal round here.’ I rested my chin on my hand and looked him over. He needn’t know I’d nearly thrown my arms around him in relief when I found he wasn’t Christian. ‘Okay, so now I’m listening. To what?’
He opened his mouth to reply and then neatly sidestepped the issue. ‘So where’s Sylvia? I’m sure I can rely on her to throw something at me, can’t I?’
‘You’re safe. She’s in London with Mike. I’ll throw something if it’ll make you feel better. Would a cushion do, or do you want a full dinner service?’
‘Rain check, maybe?’
‘How is Gabrielle?’
‘We parted company.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘She decided I was too married.’
‘Poor you.’
‘You see, I’d already realised the same thing. I was still far too married.’
‘So you came all this way to ask for a divorce?’
‘No.’ Peter sat back at last, head on one side, squinting at me quizzically. ‘Unless that’s what you want. Is it?’
What did I want? Of course divorce was the logical conclusion to our separation, but no one was going to descend on me, without warning, last thing at night, and expect me to give a simple answer. Least of all Peter. ‘It’s getting late. Where are you staying?’
‘Haven’t fixed anything yet. I suppose there’s a hotel or something nearby?’
‘Don’t be stupid. You can stay here.’
He looked hopeful, even slightly complacent. He wasn’t going to have it that easy. ‘We have a spare room.’
‘That’s – fine. Right. Thanks.’
‘Go and get your things then.’
When he returned with his bag, I had a whisky waiting for him. ‘As you’re not driving on. You weren’t really expecting to, were you.’
‘Hoping, Kate. Hoping.’ He gave an impish smile, then he cradled the whisky in his hand and swirled it. ‘We need to talk, don’t we?’
‘Do we?’
‘It’s about the only thing we haven’t done.’
Very true. We’d fought, sulked, needled; we’d maintained stiff, dignified silences, but we hadn’t talked. Yes, we needed to, but not like this, out of the blue.
‘Sorry, Peter. You need to give me a couple of day’s warning before I can settle down to a meaningful heart-to-heart.’
‘I tried but you never answered my calls— No rush then, but perhaps we should make one last effort to behave like rational grown-ups, before we say goodbye forever?’
Too reasonable for me to object. ‘Tomorrow.’
We went, I in my private nun’s cell, he in the Guinevere room overlooking the rhododendrons, with the sheets I’d hastily aired and a polite ‘goodnight then’ exchanged down the dim corridor.
Why did he have to do this to me? I lay in the dark, thinking back over the years of our marriage, the disappointments, the small pathetic betrayals. And the good times. Did the bad really outweigh them? I didn’t know but good and bad were still following me around. Would a talk be sufficient to cut the threads and release us?
Peter had arrived just as I was appreciating he wasn’t the only fish in the sea. Not the only sleek, silver, sparkling fish. I fell asleep and dreamed of swimming beside him, weaving through weeds, as he glided inexorably towards an underwater yurt.
*
‘I see you’ve come dressed for the country.’ I eyed Peter’s pale grey suit as we finished breakfast in the kitchen.
‘I didn’t realise quite how country this place would be.’ He tapped the Rayburn. ‘Hotel, Sarah said. I thought maybe genteel suburban. Fawlty Towers.’
‘Pembrokeshire doesn’t really do suburban. Wash or dry?’
‘Wash.’ He plunged our mugs. ‘Seriously, what are you doing in a place like this? I know you’re fond of Sylvia, but you’re a city girl and this is the ultimate sticks.’
‘I’m multi-facetted.’
‘Was it the business with Mardell? The police couldn’t have found anything to implicate you. Could they?’
I concentrated on drying a mug, thoroughly, inside and out. ‘Thanks for your resounding vote of confidence.’
‘Some people were suggesting…’ Peter stopped.
‘Gabrielle perhaps? Let me guess. My professional reputation was so mired that I must have run here to hide.’
‘Look, I know it’s not true.’
‘I am not hiding. Quite the reverse. I came here to escape the rut, to broaden my horizons.’
‘Obviously! Talk about leaving your comfort zone! Look at the place.’ He stared out at the cobbled yard, the stone walls and narrow windows beyond. ‘A year ago I wouldn’t have been able to drag you within a hundred yards of a house like this. It must be riddled with demonic shivers.’
‘How long are you staying? No lectures to get back for? No desperate deadline for The Economist?’
‘I am allowed the occasional break. Still avoiding awkward subjects, Kate?’
‘Still avoiding stupid comments. I warn you, Peter, if you put those grouts down the sink, you’ll be the one probing the septic tank with a Dyno-rod.’
‘Ye Gods. Time you moved back to civilisation and mains drainage.’
I laughed. ‘Drainage aside, what do you think of our new business then? Impressed?’
‘Certainly an impressive house. Just as long as anyone can find it. It’s off the map, just about. What is the business exactly?’
‘Anything that crosses Sylvia’s fermenting mind. Holiday cottages for starters; you drove in past one of them last night. Mike has his woodwork and Sylvia pots away merrily, when she can remember. I keep a gentle managerial hand on it all. Project manager, guiding it in sensible and hopefully profitable directions.’
‘What’s the next project?’
‘The craft collective. I’m sorting out proper electrics for the workshops. At the moment, there’s one trailing cable and a couple of Bakelite sockets. We should be renovating a couple more holiday cottages, but they’ll have to keep for the autumn. Sylvia’s offered them to a bunch of archaeologists for a summer dig. Her pet professor thinks we’re on a Bronze Age site.’
‘Serious stuff.’
‘Sylvia is excited—well of course, when isn’t she? I’m not so convinced.’
‘This is because you hate history of any description.’
‘No I don’t. Why should I hate history? That’s a typically illogical male generalisation from random observations.’
‘I was always told it was women who were illogical.’
‘See, there’s another one.’
Peter opened his mouth, decided against it and raised his hands in surrender. ‘All right, you love history.’
‘I don’t love or hate it. It’s just what put us where we are. End of story.’
‘All right.’
‘We’re working on an historical project right now, as it happens.’ I arranged th
e mugs and plates on the dresser. ‘This is a listed building, you know, with a mediaeval hall. We’re restoring it, using the original techniques and materials at monstrous expense. Mike’s working on some beautiful linen-fold panelling. We’ve got men in, replacing oak beams and repairing the roof and the stonework.’
‘Mighty stuff. Do I get to have a peek before they arrive?’
‘They’re already at work. Early risers.’
‘I haven’t heard a van.’
‘They’re staying on the estate.’ I smiled. ‘Yes, come and meet them.’
We could have gone through the boot-room to reach the Great Hall, but it was so much more dramatic seeing it for the first time from the outside. Peter stood open-mouthed, just as I had, on the gravel terrace, staring at the crumbling gable end and the arched doorway.
‘You weren’t kidding.’ He reached round me before I could grapple with the iron handle. The door swung open. ‘After you.’
It was the closest we’d been since he arrived. I felt his hand gently on the small of my back, drawing me in.
‘So this is it.’ I stepped free from his touch, and realised I’d walked into my own trap. Before me, from the low armoury door, shadows writhed at me. Behind me, Peter’s presence nagged me with questions and regrets. And in the arch of the massive fireplace, Al, like some Prospero in command of this island of dust and rubble, billowing plans in hand, directed his Ariel and Caliban – Pryderi and Thor – as they gathered up tools.
‘Hi, Al, how’s it going?’
Al strolled across to join me, relinquishing his papers to Thor. ‘Morning, Kate. Come to see the demolition start? We’re ready to get smashing, we reckon.’ He eyed Peter, waiting for an introduction.
‘This is Peter Lawrence,’ I said.
‘Planning?’ Al had probably never taken note of my surname and Peter was certainly dressed like a planning officer.
‘No. A family friend. Just visiting.’
‘Hi.’ Al held out his hand.
Peter took it, with polite formality. ‘How do you do?’ Very restrained as he considered my words, our friendliness, Al’s ponytail.
Al’s eyes suggested the same spirit of enquiry.
I hoped mild chatter would get me through, with the minimum of embarrassment. ‘So, the real work starts today. Do you really think we’ll have it presentable for Sylvia’s fair? There’s far too much to be done, surely.’
‘I’m hopeful. A lot of the panelling is sound enough. Just needs a little TLC. We’re going to begin stripping out the worst of it. Go on, guys.’
Of course. It had to be now, with me standing there.
Of all the panels, corners, stones and timbers in this hall, Pryderi and Thor had to head for the wall by my nightmare doorway, armed with crowbars. I watched, my heart pounding, as they heaved and prised. In a flurry of foul dust and blackened splinters, a section of rotten panelling came loose, crashing to the flag floor, revealing stone wall, stained green with seeping damp. Al bounded to join them, examining the exposed masonry with scholarly interest.
Off came the next panel, and the next, and with each one I found myself edging backwards. I hadn’t even realised I was doing it, until I found Peter beside me. ‘Okay? You’re white as a sheet.’
The final panel, into the armoury doorway. From pounding, my heart began to slow, till I thought it was going to stop completely. My lungs refused to function.
Creak, whine, wrench, crash, and then—
‘Jeez!’
‘Fucking hell!’
‘Hey!’
Out flowed tentacles of horror, seething through the sour clouds of dust.
Al dropped on his knee, in the gaping mouth of a dark opening, too excited by the find to remember he was supposed to be attuned to spiritual vibrations. ‘Priest’s Hole! Yes!’
Pryderi and Thor were stooping round him, peering in. I tried to concentrate on Peter’s face, as his eyes moved from me to the fascinating discovery, but his features were swimming. I was going to be sick. I bolted, out into the open air, stumbling across the weedy gravel, and reached for a shattered urn on the parapet to support me, before my knees gave way entirely.
Deep breaths. The sun, after a night of rain, played hide and seek among drifting flocks of clouds. A breeze ruffled the long grass in the meadow. Just like the cold rippling through me. Get a grip, woman!
‘Kate? Are you all right?’ Peter had followed. ‘Here. Sit down.’ He sat me on the parapet. ‘You look terrible.’
‘It’s just the dust. I don’t know how they cope with it—‘
‘It’s not the dust. You felt something. Something about that priest hole or whatever it is. You knew it was there?’
‘No! No I didn’t know there was anything, anywhere.’
‘But you did feel something.’
‘No! Yes. Maybe. Well what do you expect? Anyone would find that place creepy.’
‘Oh come on, Kate. I know you, remember.’
‘Kate!’ Al emerged from the hall, slapping dust and cobwebs from his arms. ‘Work’s going to have to go on hold, I’m afraid. Have to make some phone calls.’ He was close enough now to take in my expression and pallor. He didn’t ask, didn’t need to, but he paused, putting the brakes on his enthusiasm. ‘Sorry. A bit of a problem. We’ve opened a priest’s hole and it’s – not empty.’
‘Not a priest!’ Peter couldn’t resist.
Al grimaced. ‘God knows what he was. Or she. Definitely human though. Bones.’
‘I see.’ I rose to my feet, nails digging into my palms to stop my trembling. I’d known that death had happened there and was still screaming its terror and agony from the fabric. It had been screaming for centuries probably, but now that I’d arrived, it just had to erupt and spring a rotting corpse on me. ‘Yes, of course work stops. What is the procedure? Do you know? Ever uncovered remains before?’
Al nodded, scrutinising me surreptitiously. ‘Yes. It happens. You want me to handle it? I know the ropes. Police, coroner’s licence, bone specialist. They’re old, that’s all I can say for certain. If you want to see—’
‘No!’ I said.
‘Yes!’ said Peter, at the same moment.
‘Show Peter,’ I said. ‘And I’ll call the police.’
*
The two cheery police officers who drove up looked in on the gruesome find with as much prurient curiosity as Peter. It was obviously not a case of recent murder. The skeleton, probably male and partly dismantled by rats, was green and mouldering. A few shreds of rotting clothing remained, along with a leather belt and shoes, with buckles. Al guessed seventeenth century. Everyone was keen to take a look, except me.
‘We’ll pass it on to the coroner’s office.’ PC Evans finished his mug of tea and smacked his lips. ‘Nothing for you to worry about. Soon have it off your hands.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘The sooner the better. Then they can get the restoration work back on track.’
‘Yes.’ Evans drew the word out. ‘Your builders. Mm hmmm. Taverner. You chose him, why?’
‘Because he’s an expert in this sort of work.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Yes, I reckon.’
‘You’ve got your doubts about them?’ asked Peter, unhelpfully.
Evans straightened his hi vis vest, ready to leave. ‘Wouldn’t like to comment, Mr Lawrence. Suffice it to say, we knew his gang was in the area. Lost sight of them for a while, but here they are. Well, well. Just keeping tabs. Right then. We’ll be on our way. You’ll hear from the coroner soon, I hope.’
As soon as they’d driven away, Peter poured me a brandy. ‘How are you feeling? You’re not quite so green any more. Come on, sit down.’
‘Don’t fuss. I’m fine.’ I didn’t want him clucking over me. ‘I don’t do hysterics, remember. Save the sedatives for Sylvia. She and Mike are on their way and I’m not looking forward to telling her.’
He watched me, head cocked on one side. ‘Will she be surprised?’
‘
Of course! It was a complete surprise to everyone, wasn’t it?’
‘Except you. I thought you might have mentioned what you’d felt in there to Sylvia.’
‘Of course I didn’t. You know I don’t talk about these things.’
He gave a short pained laugh. ‘I know you don’t talk about them with me. I thought maybe Sylvia had more of your confidence.’
‘I wouldn’t inflict it on her.’
‘Or maybe somebody else. Your new builder chum, perhaps? You seem pretty pally with him. Al, is it?’
‘Yes, Al’s working on the Great Hall. You think that’s enough to make me unbutton my soul?’
‘Looks like he’s capable of unbuttoning more than that.’
‘Peter, don’t,’ I warned him.
‘Never imagined you developing a taste for rough trade, Kate.’
‘Oh for God’s sake!’ I walked out, furious.
Peter caught up with me, on the stairs. ‘Sorry. I don’t know why I said that.’
‘I really don’t think you have any grounds for playing the jealous husband, do you?’
‘No.’ He agreed, so contritely I stopped in my tracks and sighed. ‘Sorry, Kate. I know, I have no right to an opinion, whatever, whoever you choose to – but this Al. What do you know about him? The police seem pretty wary of him. Why?’
‘It’s probably his ponytail.’
‘Maybe they know something. How did you find him? Did he come knocking on your door?’
‘No, we knocked on his. All right?’
‘You did get references?’
‘Of course I did!’ I wasn’t going to let Peter question my professionalism, even if Al’s arrival had been a case of pure serendipity. We’d had a reference of sorts. Meg, at the rectory, had assured us they were very good. ‘Stop worrying about Al, or me, and start worrying about how Sylvia will react when she gets home to this.’
*
The Volvo pulled into the courtyard and Sylvia burst from the car to hug me. ‘How are you? You’re looking tired, isn’t she, Mike?’
‘She’s looking fine,’ said Mike. ‘Hello Kate.’
‘Oh I didn’t mean – yes of course you’re looking fabulous, you always do. I was just worried it would all be too much for you. London was wonderful, wasn’t it, Mike, and people were saying such marvellous things about his work, royalty too, and he has commissions and everything, but do you know I’m really glad to be back home, it can all get a bit too much. So how is the Great Hall? I must go and see what’s happening. Is Al managing all right? I was wondering, all the time, if they had the roof on yet, oh and how were the Baxters? I was so worried we might have forgotten something, wasn’t I, Mike? Did I tell you we saw Sarah and Phil and darling Liam and they’re coming in the autumn, oh I did, didn’t I, and Sarah told me, now I don’t want to put my foot in it or anything, but I thought you’d want to know that Peter, that rat, has split up with his secretary, she threw him out apparently and it serves him right, I say, because he deserves—’
