In a Cottage, In a Wood

by cass green

  Really, the sooner she sells the place, the better.

  She climbs into the cold sheets, shivering, and gazes up at the ceiling.

  Pipes burble away in the walls and then there is an alarming rattle from somewhere that stops as soon as it starts. Old plumbing is notorious for this sort of thing, she thinks bracingly, sliding further down into the duvet all the same.

  Only her forehead, eyes and nose are visible now. Her eyes dart about. Every sense is on red alert. There is no prospect of sleeping with the light off, despite the electricity meter situation.

  Something is making a tap-tap-tap sound now. An actual dripping tap? Or maybe it’s a branch bashing against a window. But there are no trees close up against the building, are there? It stops. She clenches her cold fists and says a little internal prayer for morning to come quickly.

  21

  In the end, Neve sleeps more deeply than she has for several days. When she wakes she needs a few moments to orientate herself; her body feels welded to the comfortable bed.

  Turning onto her other side she looks over at the window. Soft apricot-coloured light spills into the room, spoiled only by the stripes of shadow caused by the bars.

  She decides that she must use some of what is left of her inheritance to get those bars removed. After all, there is no way anyone is going to want to buy somewhere with such a ghoulish exterior. She will ask Will and Sally for a recommendation today. There is also the matter of the broken window in the kitchen. Such bad luck that the bird managed to get at the only window without bars.

  After showering, she picks through her clothes and finds a long jumper dress, which she wears over her jeans. Her policy of wearing several layers of clothes means she will have to put a load of washing on later. She adds washing powder to her mental shopping list.

  Neve makes a cup of coffee and two slices of toast, which she coats thickly with peanut butter. Sunshine floods in through the kitchen window, buoying up her spirits. Looking around, she tries to picture the kitchen redecorated in a cheerful yellow. She will get Lou to help; her sister has always had the best eye for what looks good in terms of décor.

  This prompts her to go and get her iPad, which has been charging in the bedroom. She quickly finds the Gardner wi-fi connection and, with a flush of warm gratitude, types in the password.

  Settling at the kitchen table, she takes another bite of her toast and opens her emails.

  The only one of any interest is from her employer.

  Neve knows what it is going to say but she braces herself to read it anyway.

  It’s from the head of human resources and, sure enough, it informs her that by leaving her post, and failing to inform her manager about her intentions, her employment contract has been severed with immediate effect.

  This feels like something abstract. It is difficult to muster any real emotion about it. She hunts again for an email from Miri and there is nothing. Her real life feels far away right now and she can’t seem to feel its emotional dimensions. She quickly taps out a WhatsApp message.

  I’m online again. Give me news. This place is a total dump. Have you popped?

  xxN

  This done, Neve sits in the silent kitchen and drums her fingers on the table, thinking.

  What can she possibly say to Richard Shawcross? She runs through sentences in her mind and they all seem quite inadequate to the task.

  I’m so sorry.

  I’m sure she was a wonderful person.

  I never asked for anything.

  She gets up from the table. It is her duty to at least have some understanding of who Isabelle was before meeting her brother. So far all she knows is that her house was a tip, she had poor mental health and she didn’t mind the smell of potpourri.

  Standing in the small study, she looks at the tidy desk and then notices a laptop computer has been slid sideways into a shelf above it. She lifts it down and turns it on.

  The screen is black and a message flashes up in white lettering: Missing operating system, insert boot disk and try again.

  She remembers Steve selling a computer of Lou’s and doing something like this. Formatting it. Something like that. She’s not going to be finding any useful information on it, that’s for sure.

  She gets up and goes to the filing cabinet. The first drawer opens easily and she peers inside.

  Cardboard hanging files flutter as she runs her fingers through them. Each one is empty. The same is true of the other drawers, and, when she goes to the desk drawers, she only finds a stapler, some Sellotape, and a couple of pens.

  Neve frowns and chews her lip as she looks around the room, thinking hard.

  It seems that Isabelle has left no clues about her life whatsoever. There are no stray pieces of paper, no other photographs, no notebooks containing doodles or shopping lists or anything of that ilk at all.

  So why keep all the clothes? Why is it only the personal information that has been systematically destroyed or swept away?

  It’s like she wanted to leave nothing official behind. The clothes, however, feel like another strange gift.

  Frustrated by the failure of her search to unearth anything new about Isabelle, Neve decides there is no putting it off. She dresses in her coat and – finally dry – boots. When she leaves the cottage she double checks all the locks on the door. After her confusion the previous evening, she decides from now on she will count ‘one, two, three’ out loud as she locks them.

  Birdsong chirrups all around her. The air is warm and it almost feels spring-like as she gets to the end of the lane and turns into the main road. The walk to Richard’s house isn’t far but she hopes she has remembered the way correctly after her walk back from the Gardners’ the night before. She’s certain it was only the next left turning and even she can’t get that wrong.

  She has no idea what to expect from Richard Shawcross. But for once, she is doing the right thing, the grown-up thing, and this spurs her on.

  In daylight she can see that this isn’t a lane at all, but a road. She hugs the side of it as she walks, in case any cars come hurtling around the high-walled bends. Within a few moments she passes the Gardners’ property and glances up, stopping for a moment, in case anyone is about. She isn’t exactly in a hurry to meet Richard and would be glad of the excuse of a cup of coffee.

  But there is no sign of anyone and so with a sigh she carries on for a few minutes until she comes to a small churchyard on the same side of the road.

  The church itself is a tiny rectangle of grey stone and doesn’t look as though it would seat more than fifty people at most. Neve pushes the gate, which is bent and covered with a filigree of silvery lichen and dark moss, and walks into the churchyard.

  There are twenty or so graves, some old enough to list sideways like broken teeth in their spongy gum of grass. Towards the back a number are bunched together by a family monument with a cross enclosed in a circle above it.

  The name SHAWCROSS appears on the front of the column. This must be the family plot. Neve sees immediately that one of the headstones at the far end is in shiny black granite that looks relatively new. There are some flowers messily scattered in front of it, a small white vase in two cracked pieces.

  She peers at the inscription.

  ISABELLE ASTER SHAWCROSS

  10th August 1982 – 21st December 2016

  The winter is past, the rain is over and gone.

  A beautiful quote, she thinks, reflecting tactfully that Isabelle was a troubled woman. She hopes she really does have peace now, even though she doesn’t believe in anything like that, not really.

  Aster … middle name, or part of her surname? It’s hard to say.

  Her attention comes back now to the flowers that have been laid around the grave. An animal must have destroyed them, she supposes. Still, it gives her an uneasy feeling. It almost looks as though someone has stamped on the vase and torn the blooms to pieces by hand. But why would anyone do that?

  Maybe she is starting to get par
anoid too now, she thinks, pulling a face at no one.

  The sharp, bleak caw of ravens above her head make her look up. The sky is now white with cloud; the weather seems to change so quickly here. It’s very quiet apart from the sinister rasping calls that seem to be saying she’s not welcome here.

  Neve hurries back to the gate, almost tripping on the uneven ground, and goes back into the lane.

  She only has to walk for another few minutes before she reaches large, metal gates; the word ‘Briarfields’ wrought into the framework.

  Neve feels a flicker of nerves as she peers through.

  Will had hinted that Richard was difficult. Maybe Isabelle really hated him, to leave her house to a total stranger? This thought, once lodged, causes her hands to sweat. She squeezes her palms together as she regards the house before her.

  It certainly isn’t the grand manor house she’d pictured.

  Made from the pale grey stone that seems to be common here, Briarfields is an unusual shape, neither rectangle nor square. It is constructed from two wings that face outwards, angled slightly, connected by a curved middle section. The overall effect is unsettling to the eye, as though the building is neither straight nor round. The two wings are topped by crenelated points. The gravel driveway is lined by trees and a dirty green Land Rover is parked outside the house.

  Noticing a buzzer on the gate, Neve presses it firmly, heart fluttering in her chest. Nothing happens. After a few moments she tries again.

  Gnawing on her little fingernail, she debates giving up. Richard might not even be in, despite the presence of a vehicle.

  That’s when she sees someone coming around the side of the house, a dog trotting close by his heels. Head down, the man appears completely unaware of her presence.

  With a jolt she realizes she’s seen him before. It’s the man who burst into the solicitor’s office that day, looking for his phone. No wonder Laura Meade had looked so mortified by his presence. She’d presumably spaced out the two appointments, so there wouldn’t be any potential awkwardness when Richard met the person who had breezed in and taken possession of his sister’s house.

  He is currently showing every sign of disappearing around the other side of the building without seeing her so Neve calls out, ‘Hey! Hello?’

  Richard Shawcross – because surely this is him – starts and turns. The dog bounds across to the gate, barking hysterically but evidently happy, judging by the manically waggy tail. Neve puts her hand through the bars and rubs the dog’s head. Shawcross approaches, his brow pinched with suspicion.

  ‘Help you?’ he says curtly.

  Neve attempts her sunniest smile.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but are you Richard? Isabelle’s brother?’

  He frowns so deeply now he is almost wincing.

  ‘That’s me.’ His voice is low and gruff.

  ‘I’m … well, I’m Neve. I’m the person who …’ she flails then adds lamely ‘… who has the cottage now.’

  There is a long silence. All Neve can think to do is rub the dog’s velvety head as he lies against the fence, trying to get as close to her as possible. She sees now that he is quite old, with a grey dusting on his chest.

  ‘What do you want?

  ‘Oh,’ she says, with a short, nervous laugh. ‘Well, I thought I ought to introduce myself. I wanted to say that I’m … really sorry.’ She swallows and when he fails to respond, she allows the words she really wants to say to tumble out of her mouth.

  ‘Look,’ she says, ‘I also wanted you to know that I never asked for anything that night. I only met her for five minutes.’

  She trails off. Richard is staring at her. With a deep sigh he unlocks the gate from the other side.

  ‘I suppose you had better come in.’

  22

  Richard marches ahead at speed. Neve struggles to keep up with his long-legged stride. The dog trots along next to her, gazing up with a stupid grin.

  ‘What’s your name then?’ she says to the dog, foolishly.

  ‘It’s Jarvis,’ says Richard, stopping so suddenly that she almost crashes into his large back.

  ‘Ah!’ says Neve. ‘You’re a Pulp fan?’

  Richard looks blank.

  ‘Cocker?’ she adds uncertainly. ‘Jarvis Cocker?’

  ‘I don’t know who that is,’ says Richard, blankly. ‘It’s just a rather very intelligent system.’

  Neve can only stare at him in bafflement.

  ‘Just A Rather Very Intelligent System,’ says Richard, more forcefully. ‘It’s an acronym. Comic book thing. From Iron Man. My sister persuaded our grandmother to give it the ridiculous name. Dog was hers.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Neve. ‘Okay …’

  They go around the side of the house, from where Richard had originally emerged. This takes them into a large garden with wild, tangled grass.

  A few statues emerge from the thick greenery, dotted with moss. One, of a cherub balancing on one foot, is listing sideways, ivy creeping up and seeming to devour the pale limbs.

  ‘Right, come on in then,’ he says as they reach a door. It opens into a kitchen.

  This turns out to be yet another country place that doesn’t fit Neve’s preconception. She’d pictured a range; maybe a huge table with a dead pheasant on it. Copper pots.

  But this décor is even older than that of Petty Whin Cottage. There’s a free-standing sink, and a couple of sideboards in a faded yellow colour. The floor is covered in greyish lino and there is a pet basket in one corner. A strong doggy smell permeates the air, which is too hot.

  At least there is an Aga.

  Jarvis walks over to the bed and collapses into it with a loud huff.

  The kitchen table is covered in papers, along with a laptop and several smeared plates and mugs with sticky dark rings inside them. A mobile phone lies on the top of some paper files. The top one looks like information from an estate agent called Salter McColl Property.

  Neve stands awkwardly while Richard regards the table, rather as if it had appeared like this in his absence.

  ‘Sorry about this,’ he says doubtfully. ‘Only bloody warm place in the house. I spend a lot of time in here.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ says Neve with forced cheerfulness. ‘You should see how I live!’

  Richard scours her with a direct gaze and she wants to cram the words back in. What a stupid thing to say in the circumstances. Now he will think his sister has thrown her house away – the house he should naturally have been left – on some crusty squatter. It’s a habit she hates about herself, this need to be the joker; to always have a quip. Abashed, she stands there until Richard rather curtly suggests that she sit down.

  She removes a man’s jumper and a paperback book with a baffling business title from the nearest chair and places them on the only remaining bit of table, before gingerly sitting down.

  ‘Coffee? Tea?’ barks Richard.

  ‘Oh nothing for me,’ she says. But he wasn’t just being polite and her heart sinks as he goes to fill the kettle. She could kill for a coffee right now.

  The only sounds for the next few minutes are the burble of the boiling water and the gentle snores puffing from Jarvis in his basket.

  Neve cannot imagine what she could possibly say to continue a conversation with this man.

  But Richard, carrying a mug of tea, joins her at the table and speaks first.

  ‘How did she … seem?’ he says. ‘My sister? When you, er …’

  ‘Oh,’ says Neve, wishing she had a cup of something for distraction. ‘It’s hard to …’

  ‘Right,’ says Richard crisply. ‘Just tell me what happened.’

  Neve takes a steadying breath as she carefully chooses her words.

  ‘Well,’ she says, ‘I really wish I could tell you more. Or that I had some insight into it. But we literally spoke for a couple of minutes.’

  ‘I understand that.’ Richard’s face is impassive but his eyes, which Neve sees now are very blue, seem filmy, maybe with te
ars.

  Neve attempts to relay the precise conversation with Isabelle as it happened.

  Richard drinks his tea in a series of noisy slurps, his eyes elsewhere.

  Neve clears her throat.

  ‘Look, Richard,’ she says, ‘I don’t understand why she left me the cottage. It doesn’t feel right to me to keep it. I’m not sure what I’m going to do, but it’s important you know I never asked for any of this.’

  Richard blinks a couple of times. Then he covers his face with both hands and rubs his cheeks vigorously, as though running a pair of windscreen wipers over them. His eyes are bright with emotion, but he isn’t crying, to her enormous relief.

  ‘Get rid of it then,’ he says so bluntly that she jolts. ‘Burn it down. I don’t care.’

  Then he lets out a long sigh.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It’s all been a bit of a shock.’

  Neve clears her throat. ‘I bet,’ she says with feeling. She hesitates before speaking again. ‘Um, I hate to ask this, but what do you want to do with her things? Do you want to come around and look through them?’

  ‘No,’ he says forcefully. ‘Keep it all. Give it to the charity shop. Whatever you want.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Richard gives her a stiff, brief smile. ‘Sorry if I’m a little …’ He takes a swig of his tea. ‘I’m not sleeping well and I haven’t got time to think about this. I have to go to London for a few days on business and I’m not remotely ready.’

  At that moment his phone beeps with a text. He snatches it up and then says, ‘Fuck,’ loudly. It sounds to Neve like ‘fark’.

  ‘Is everything alright?’ she asks tentatively.

  ‘Bloody dog sitter,’ he says. ‘Saying now she can’t take Jarvis. Fuck.’

  Neve glances over to the dog, whose head has reared up at the mention of his name.

  She doesn’t give herself time to think it through.

  ‘I could look after Jarvis,’ she says.

  Richard stares at her. ‘You?’ he says. Finally, she is riled.

  ‘Just a thought,’ she says with faux cheer, getting to her feet. ‘But I can tell you probably have lots of people to help …’