Love Notes from Vinegar House

by Karen Tayleur

  “Ah, yes you do, Shrimp,” he said, ignoring my request.

  I used to like Luke Hart. Idolised him. Felt a warm glow whenever he was around. But this Luke Hart annoyed me, and I was glad we weren’t friends any more.

  “I have a cold,” I said, improvising. Then I sniffed a couple of times to make a point. “And you … you have a zit on your nose. I’m surprised you can see past it, it’s so big.”

  It was the meanest thing I could think of to say, but it didn’t remove the smirk from his face, and I felt a strong urge to lean forwards and push my hand into that smirk until it went away.

  Luckily for Luke, his mobile buzzed and he turned around in his seat to send someone a message. I checked my own phone to see that we were only forty-five minutes into our trip. I texted Isabella and Holly, but there were no quick replies. I needed a drink, then cursed when I realised I’d left my water bottle in the fridge at home.

  I spent the rest of the trip squashed up against a bathroom pitcher and basin that Mrs Hart just couldn’t live without. I thought it was hideous, but she seemed very happy with it. When she asked what I thought about it, I smiled and said it was an amazing colour. And this was true. I was amazed anyone could like the salmon-pink colour with baby blue highlights picked out on tiny rosebuds and swirling ribbons. I knew Luke was onto me, so I resisted looking at him and stared out the window instead. Eventually, the car turned down the familiar gravel road, and we crunched along for another five minutes. As we crested the last hill, the grey shingle roof of Vinegar House suddenly appeared. This was always my favourite part of the trip to the house, because one moment you’re surrounded by dry hilly country and the next the sea is laid out before you like a shimmering secret. I cranked down the window a little to sniff at the salty air.

  I must admit that the house always looked imposing at a distance. It seemed rooted into the very earth it stood upon, its many tiny windows flanked by shutters and its stone bricks made it look like it was carved straight out of the hill. It was only as you drew closer that you saw the cracks. Mortar crumbled between the bricks in the chimneys, some of the window casements were warped from the weather and the roof looked like it wouldn’t last a minor rain shower. Even the trees around the house looked grey and worn that day, their bare branches rattling in spindly defiance against the sea breeze.

  “Here we are,” said Mrs Hart, who was good at stating the obvious.

  It wasn’t until Rumer strolled out to the car as we pulled up that I realised, like I’d been hit with an antique bathroom pitcher, exactly why Luke Hart had come along for the ride.

  “Well, look who’s here,” said Mrs Hart, her eyes wide with surprise, as if she hadn’t expected to see Rumer. “Here we are,” she sang out again. Then she bounded from the car to grab Rumer in a huge hug.

  “Well, look who’s here,” I muttered loud enough for Luke to hear.

  I watched his face turn from red to white and back again.

  “Come on, you twoooo,” sang Mrs Hart. (I would not pay to hear Mrs Hart sing. If you tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it.)

  I climbed out from under the antique treasure, and Rumer removed herself from her torturer to come and give me a fake hug – the kind where you hang onto a person’s arms, lean in, but don’t make any other contact.

  “Hi, cuz,” she said brightly. Then in my ear, “There is nothing to do here. Old vinegar-tongue is driving me nuts.”

  I saw Luke hovering behind Rumer, so I said, “Great to see you too. Luke was just saying, he couldn’t wait to catch up.”

  Rumer swirled around and Luke gave her a sheepish grin. Then she grabbed him in a non-fake hug that meant her body was pushed so close up against his that you couldn’t get a toothpick between them if you tried. It was probably illegal in over forty-seven countries. She leaned back and looked him full in the face.

  “Smile again!” she ordered.

  He smiled and I realised that his braces had been removed. In their place was a perfect set of white non-bucked teeth. Maybe that was the difference I’d noticed earlier that day. My childhood hero was gone.

  “Well done, you. Grandma said you must come in and say hello. Mrs Skelton cooked a lemon tart this morning. Let’s hope it’s better than her muffin recipe.” She tucked her arm through Luke’s and escorted both the Harts to the front door, talking all the while, as I struggled behind with the luggage.

  I had a strong feeling of deja vu.

  Chapter 9

  I shoved my mobile phone further down in my pocket as I stood in the entry hall – just in case Grandma decided I couldn’t keep it with me. I could hear Mrs Hart’s and Rumer’s voices competing against the low murmurs of my grandmother from the drawing room. As I dropped my largest suitcase to the floor, Mrs Skelton appeared at the top of the stairs, a duster in one hand, and a frown on her face.

  “Hello, Mrs Skelton,” I said, loudly.

  The poor woman was older than my grandmother – probably should have retired years ago. She’d come to Vinegar House ten years before, when Grandma had tripped on the front step and broken her wrist. The family had insisted that Grandma move closer to town.

  “This is my home,” Grandma had said gruffly. “The only way I’m leaving here is in a pine box.”

  Of course, that idea was ridiculous, a total lie, because Grandma would never settle for anything less than something in mahogany, with shiny brass handles and maroon satin lining. Still, she got her own way. Even the Colonel couldn’t make Grandma do something she didn’t want to.

  The compromise was Mrs Skelton, who was supposed to be a live-in companion, but who also cooked most of the meals and kept a tidy house. This suited Grandma Vinegar who always walked about as if she were the Queen of England. Much better than just having a house cleaner come in once a week. She probably bragged about it to her friends.

  Mrs Skelton was a tall woman with silver hair which she wore pulled back severely across her head. Her face was the colour of the calico at Miss Maudy’s Quilt Barn and was highlighted by cheekbones that reminded me of the Jolly Roger’s flag (which features a skull, if you don’t know). I’d caught her napping more than once in the afternoon sun in the drawing room or the library. Grandma had found Isabella and I giggling one day as Mrs Skelton sat in one of the library’s huge leather chairs, her head tipped back, and a snore rising from her like a motor.

  “Mrs Skelton deserves a rest, don’t you think, girls?” Grandma had asked, her tone low and icy. “Perhaps you could help lessen her load?”

  My sister and I spent the rest of the day cleaning the silverware until our hands were black from it and fingers sore from the rubbing.

  “Hello, Mrs Skelton,” I repeated even louder.

  She gave me a little wave, peering down through the gloom.

  “Is that you, Erica?” she said.

  “It’s Freya,” I told her, horrified that she would think I was my mother.

  “Oh, yes.”

  She told me to take my things to the Yellow Room, grumbling loudly as she polished at an errant mark on the staircase handrail.

  “I don’t get paid enough for all this upset,” she said as I slid past her into my room.

  Knowing my grandmother, she was probably right.

  I dumped my things inside the bedroom door, then my phone buzzed – a missed phone call from Mum that had gone straight to message bank. I moved around the room for a better signal then returned Mum’s call, assuring her that I’d arrived safely and telling her to have a safe trip. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her to take me with them. Luckily, the phone call dropped out before I could.

  I pulled the curtains back to let in the grey wintry light. The nap of the velvet had worn in places from countless fingers doing the exact same thing. I wondered whose room it had been before Dad’s. Maybe I’d keep that question up my sleeve for when I was sitting in the drawing room with Grandma and Rumer and had nothing to say.

  The weak light at the window couldn’t chase away the
gloom, so I turned on a bedside lamp then pushed at the springs of the bed that sagged in the middle. The room was cold. I got up and ran my hand over the heating coil against the wall. It was barely tepid. Just warm enough, really, to keep the damp from the walls. I’d have to ask Mrs Skelton for a hot water bottle for my bed. Grandma didn’t believe in electric blankets.

  This was the room that my family bunked in whenever we stayed at Vinegar House when I was little. There were plenty of spare bedrooms but us kids were always too scared of the house to sleep without an adult around. I found it hard to picture the young Mathew – my Dad’s name – hanging out in his room with posters and a radio (if Grandma had let him).

  His old study desk took up a lot of space in one corner of the room. It made a great cubbyhouse if you threw a blanket over it and climbed under into the space left for feet. It was during my cubbyhouse days that I found Dad’s initials carved into the underside of the desk. I’d been learning my alphabet at school, and discovering his initials was like uncovering a lost treasure map to my father. This proved he had been a boy once. Someone short like me. Someone who didn’t always stride about barking commands. But when I asked Dad about it he seemed annoyed, saying it was, “not in his nature to deface property, even as a child.” He’d used the work “deface” as if I should know what it meant. I was five at the time.

  For years, Dad would bring some blow-up mattresses when we stayed over, and we’d pretend we were camping. Oscar usually ended up in bed with Mum and Dad by the morning, but Isabella and I would line up our beds side by side, giggling at the dust bunnies under the high double bed, telling each other ghost stories until we were left breathless in the dark, scared by the strength of our imaginations.

  We hadn’t stayed over for years. Dad was always in a hurry to get back to some business thing, and Isabella used uni as an excuse to do whatever she wanted. I felt sorry for Oscar. By the time he was old enough to join in with the games of the older cousins, we’d pretty much stopped playing, although Isabella was always up for a board game if he ever got tired of doing nothing.

  Isabella. I wished she were with me, putting up with Grandma and Rumer and old Mrs Skelton. Then I realised it was all her fault. If she hadn’t taken a holiday, I’d be in my own home right now, checking out the pantry, or lying on the couch in front of the TV. I’d gotten through to her mobile phone before I left home, and though she was sad for Mum, she was happy to take Dad’s advice and continue her holiday, agreeing with him that there was nothing she could do. At least she hadn’t laughed when I told her about staying at Vinegar House.

  “Oh, sorry, Freya, but it won’t be that bad,” she said. “I’ll bring you back a present.”

  “Thanks,” I’d said dully.

  “And say hi to Rumer for me.” And then she did laugh.

  “I hate you,” I said.

  “I’ll make it a big present,” she said.

  I lay down on the bed and smelled the strange mix of must and lavender that always reminded me of Vinegar House. The pillowcases felt damp. I noticed the paint on the ceiling was peeling in one corner of the room, and there was a stain near the window as if the roof might be leaking.

  “Your grandmother says you might like to come downstairs. Afternoon tea is ready.” Mrs Skelton was at the door, the duster still in one hand.

  I slid off the bed, aware that I’d had my shoes on the bedcover, and knowing that Mrs Skelton had seen me.

  “Afternoon tea? Yummy,” I gabbled.

  I hadn’t said the word yummy … well, ever really. I barely stopped myself from rubbing my stomach like some pantomime character. There was something about Mrs Skelton that always made me feel like apologising.

  “I hear you’ve made a tart.” I tried to brush at the dirt my shoes had left, pretending I was smoothing the bedcover.

  “Did you now?” She eyed me suspiciously.

  “Rumer told me. She said she hoped the tarts were as good as your muffins.” I laughed nervously.

  “Did she?” Mrs Skelton moved towards the bed and shook her head at the mess my shoes had made.

  “I love a good tart,” I said, edging towards the door. That just sounded rude. I stifled a nervous giggle. I didn’t think Mrs Skelton would enjoy the joke. “Muffins too. Muffins and tarts. They’re all good.”

  “Afternoon tea is a waste of time, if you ask me,” said Mrs Skelton severely. “Considering your dinner is at six. Don’t fill up on tart,” she said. “I’m not cooking a roast for nothing.”

  “Oh, a roast. Great. I’m just going to …”

  And with that I left the room and ran down the stairs, leaving Mrs Skelton grumbling behind me.

  The Harts didn’t stay for long. There was barely time for me to go downstairs and shove the rubbery lemon tart into my mouth before they were standing up and saying their goodbyes.

  “See you soon,” Rumer said to Luke before she disappeared upstairs.

  As usual, Rumer hadn’t wasted time organising her social calendar. It seemed like Luke Hart was back on the menu.

  My heart skipped as Luke stopped on the steps with me then leaned in and brushed my cheek with his lips and whispered in my ear, “I will see you soon …”

  Actually, that didn’t really happen.

  While I was dreaming of Luke Hart kissing me on the cheek he was waving goodbye, closing the car door behind him, then disappearing down the driveway in a flurry of white gravel.

  Then I sat down on the house entrance steps and looked out past the bluff to the sea, which was the grey of Luke Hart’s eyes. A sea breeze sent the smell of something dead from the beach or it may have just been a stale mound of seaweed. I watched the choppy waves and the seagulls wheeling above me, riding on the air currents.

  And I felt the house watching me as I sat.

  Chapter 10

  That first night at Vinegar House, well technically, it was the next morning, I woke at 2.47 am. I know this because I checked my mobile phone, which I kept under my pillow. I wasn’t sure what had woken me at first, and then I heard the slap slap of a loose shutter from somewhere downstairs. I was mostly awake so I decided to visit the toilet. With my torch app guiding me, I found my way to the dresser and turned on the tiny lamp there, then moved into the hallway and turned right towards the bathroom. I could hear the sound of fast-running water. It wasn’t the shallow sound of water splashing into the handbasin, but the deeper sound of water pouring into the bath.

  Who’d be taking a bath now? I thought.

  By this time I really had to go to the toilet, and the nearest toilet was in that bathroom. The second toilet was downstairs, and I didn’t like the idea of moving around the dark house with only a torch app on my phone to guide me.

  I knocked softly on the bathroom door, but there was no answer. I knocked again, louder this time, then tried the handle and the door opened with a creak. The room was in darkness, so I turned on the light. Steam had fogged the cabinet mirror and condensation was already forming on the peeling wallpaper. A flimsy plastic curtain screened off the claw-foot bath up against the wall.

  “Hello?” I whispered.

  I know you think I’m probably crazy not to turn and run, but I was still half asleep, and my brain was on autopilot. The running water continued. I thought I heard the sound of splashing about, like someone was in the bath already.

  I needed to go to the toilet but I wasn’t about to go if someone was in the bath so I reached out and tugged at the curtain in a jerky move.

  “What are you doing?”

  I screamed.

  There was no one in the bath, but when I turned around Mrs Skelton was standing by the sink watching me with a frown on her face.

  “I … I heard the water …”

  The housekeeper moved forwards and turned the taps off tightly.

  “This house is old,” she said. “The whole plumbing system needs replacing, but …” She shrugged.

  “The taps?”

  “Sometimes the taps work themse
lves loose,” said Mrs Skelton. “I’ll get Mr Chilvers to look at it tomorrow.”

  Then she pulled at the chain attached to the bathplug so that the water could escape. We didn’t discuss how the plug just happened to be in place.

  She stared me down until I said, “All right.”

  I felt her watch me as I returned to my bedroom. I left the dresser light on and hopped back into bed, then realised I hadn’t made it to the toilet after all. I’d just have to wait until morning.

  And I tried not to think about the splashing noises from the bath.

  Chapter 11

  I don’t like conflict. Some people seem to like the excitement of it. They enjoy the yelling and the drama, but it makes my insides twist, and I run and hide whenever I can until the trouble is over. I guess you could call me a coward. It’s why I always gave in to my cousin Rumer and why I dread her bad temper. Waiting for Rumer to have one of her meltdowns was like waiting for a threatening thunderstorm. After a couple of days at Vinegar House I could feel the clouds rolling in from the horizon. There was a definite temperature drop and occasional glimpses of lightning when she snapped at me.

  “Please don’t use my shampoo, it’s very expensive.”

  “I was going to take that piece of toast.”

  “Can you be quiet, I’m trying to study.”

  “Do you have to be so noisy when you get up in the mornings?”

  “Are you totally stupid?”

  It may not seem much to you, but I knew Rumer, and this was the start of something bigger. Something was bugging her and someone was going to pay.

  She was spending a lot of time in her room and I wasn’t sure what that was about.

  At home I’d sleep in until lunchtime when I was on holidays. At Vinegar House I was waking up early with a cold hot water bottle – which really just made it a cold water bottle, I suppose – and a cold nose, and could only get warm if I had a hot shower. By then I was wide awake and my bed was usually made once I returned to my room. I assumed Mrs Skelton was to blame, but I never caught her at it.