Night Music

by Jojo Moyes

  He turned off the engine and climbed out, listening to the distant flapping of Canada geese, the low murmur of the wind in the trees. This was the most spectacular setting he had seen for years. And the house had been untouched for decades. It was unlikely to have been listed, he thought. There was no symmetry, no clear references to a historical past. It was a mishmash of styles, an Anglo-Moorish bastard, its age showing only in its visible air of disrepair. It was the kind of building one never saw any more; virtually untouched, yet full of potential.

  He walked a little closer, his car forgotten, half expecting the angry bark of a dog or the shout of an outraged inhabitant. But the house was deserted, his approach unnoticed, except by the sparrows and crows. No car in the driveway suggested an occupant, so he peered through a window. The lack of furniture suggested long absence. Only the fields showed human activity; they had been carefully drilled, and the hedges were neatly topped.

  Afterwards he wasn't sure what had made him do it. These last few years he had been cautious, not prone to risk-taking. But he tried the door, and when it opened obligingly, Nicholas Trent did not obey the rules of common sense. He did not even call out. He walked into the main hallway. The light fittings there were characteristic of the 1930s, the bureau visible through a door a decade later. He went into what must have been a drawing room, which had been inhabited recently - there was an Ikea armchair - but overall his impression was of neglect. The pleasing dimensions of the rooms were flawed by holes in the plaster, missing skirting, the pervasive smell of damp. The high ceilings were marred by sepia patches that spread across their once-white surfaces. The windows were spoilt by missing panes and rotting frames. Where would you start? Nicholas wondered, and almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the question. Because there were no houses like this any more. They had been demolished or converted years ago by speculators like himself. He moved quietly up the stairs, and headed to an open door. It led into the master bedroom, a generous room, overlooking the lake, with a vast bay window whose view seemed to encompass the entire grounds. He stepped closer to it and let out a long, slow breath of pleasure. He tried to ignore the faint smell of cigarette smoke.

  Nicholas Trent was not a fanciful man; he had lost any penchant for wistfulness when he had lost his wife. But he stood now, staring at the lake and the forest, hearing the unexpected silence of the house, and could not ignore the idea that he might have been sent there for a reason.

  It was then that he saw the suitcase, clothes spilling out chaotically. A paperback book and a hairbrush. Someone was staying here. Those small domestic items broke the spell. I am in someone's bedroom, he thought. Feeling suddenly like an intruder Nicholas turned and walked swiftly out of the room, ran down the stairs and was out of the house in seconds. He did not turn until he reached his car, and at that point he paused and stood for a moment, regarding it at a distance and trying to imprint it on his memory.

  Because Nicholas Trent didn't see a semi-derelict house. He saw a development of twelve five-bedroom executive homes of exceptional quality, discreetly arranged at the edge of the water. He saw an apartment block of award-winning modernistic design, a country retreat for the middle classes, marketed in Country Life. For the first time in five years, Nicholas Trent saw his future.

  'Tell me about the Spanish House.' It had been hard to sound casual, but he had no choice. No one was more likely to know what was going on with that property than Mike Todd: he had sold houses in the Bartons for almost thirty years.

  Mike handed him a glass of brandy. They were seated in front of the fire, their legs stretched in front of them. Mike's wife, an unusually contented sort who insisted the 'menfolk' relax while she sorted out the kitchen, had disappeared. Nicholas had been unable to contain himself any longer.

  Mike looked at him speculatively. 'The Spanish House, eh? What do you want with it?'

  'I took a wrong turn this afternoon and ended up on that godawful track. I was wondering who owned it. Strange-looking place.'

  'Eyesore, you mean. It's a wreck.' Mike took a deep swig of his brandy, then swirled it round his glass.

  He affected to know about alcohol, and had spent much of the meal lost in appreciation of the wines, none of which Nicholas had found remarkable. Nicholas worried that he was now going to lecture him about cognac. He had forgotten Mike could be a bit of a bore. 'Listed?'

  'That heap? No. It was missed when they listed everything else round here as it's so deep in the woods. But very little's been done to it in years.' He sniffed. 'Actually, interesting tale, that place. It was owned by the Pottisworths for God knows how long. They were an important family round here, but more interested in the outside than the in - huntin', shootin', fishin' types. And old Samuel Pottisworth did nothing to it for fifty years. He had promised it to Matt McCarthy, an old friend of mine. He and his wife looked after the old boy for years. But it went to his last surviving relative. A widow, apparently.'

  'Pensioner?' If she was elderly, Nicholas thought hopefully, she might not want the bother of a house like that.

  'Oh, no. In her thirties, I believe. Two children. They moved in a couple of months ago.'

  'Someone's living there?'

  Mike chuckled. 'God knows how - the place is falling apart at the seams. Put Matt's nose out of joint, though. I think he wanted to do it up for himself. His dad had worked there for years. There was bad blood between his family and the Pottisworths. I think it was his way of settling a score. You know, some Upstairs Downstairs thing.'

  'So . . . what's she planning to do with it?'

  'Who knows? She's not the villagey type. I hear she's a little . . .' he dropped his voice, as if he might be overheard '. . . eccentric. Musical. You know the sort.'

  Nicholas nodded, although he didn't.

  'Up from London too - talk about a baptism of fire.'

  Mike lifted his balloon glass to the light. What he saw appeared to satisfy him. 'Yes, that house is the definition of a money pit. You could drop a hundred K into it and not touch the sides. Still, poor old Matt was bitterly disappointed when it went elsewhere. Fatal, getting too emotionally involved with a property. He made the mistake of taking it all personally. I told him, estate agent's advice: "There's always another property." You know that better than most, eh, Nicholas? How is the London market, anyway?'

  'You're absolutely right. There's always another property,' echoed Nicholas, his elegant hands closing round his glass. But his head was full of the Spanish House.

  Eight

  The mingling of eight different perfumes in her centrally heated living room was nauseating. Laura opened a window a fraction, even though the temperature outside was still far from spring-like. Around her seven other women sat or perched on chairs, some with their stockinged feet tucked under them, others balancing coffee cups on their laps.

  'I can't believe she was the only one who didn't know. It was practically common knowledge at the pre-school.'

  'He was hardly discreet, was he? Geraldine saw him kissing her in the staff car park. And it's a church school - she's hardly an advertisement for the sixth commandment.' Annette Timothy's angular neck lengthened as her voice rose.

  'I think you mean the seventh.' Michelle Jones always liked to stir it a little. 'The sixth is murder.'

  'If a head teacher of a church school can't set an example, I don't know who can,' Annette continued. 'Anyway, God only knows what's going to happen to poor old Bridget. She's a wreck. Although, frankly, if she'd put the odd bit of lipstick on occasionally he might not have strayed . . .'

  'She did put on an awful lot of weight after her last pregnancy.'

  Laura tuned out. An acute moral sense - and perhaps a dash of self-interest - meant that she rarely participated in such conversations, or the round-up of local scandal that passed for conversation in the Bartons. She ran a practised eye over her immaculate room, taking her habitual quiet satisfaction from a room properly arranged. The peonies were beautiful in the Chinese vase. It had
come from her parents' library, where she could still picture it on the mantelpiece. She had decided against lilies: their scent would have been overpowering.

  Matt never noticed things like that, only when she had failed to do something - her moments of mutiny, as she privately called them. When he came home late three times in a row, she made sure he had no clean socks. Or she didn't record his favourite television programme. Enough to get him shaking his head and muttering as he went off the following morning that he didn't know what the world was coming to. This is how it would be if you were without me, she would tell him silently. Your world as you know and like it would collapse.

  'What time did you tell her to come, Laura?'

  Laura dragged herself back to the room. Hazel's coffee was nearly finished, she saw, and got up to make more. 'Ten to ten thirty.'

  'It's nearly eleven now,' Annette expostulated.

  'Perhaps she got lost.' Michelle grinned.

  'Across the lane? I don't think so.' Annette let her tone reflect exactly what she was thinking. 'Not very polite, is it?'

  Laura hadn't been sure she would come anyway.

  'A coffee morning?' Isabel Delancey had said, as Laura stood on her doorstep two days previously.

  'It's just a few neighbours. Quite a few have children. It's our way of saying hello.'

  It had been strange to see someone else in Mr Pottisworth's house, their house, but Laura had been unable to take her eyes off the woman's dressing-gown. It was almost half past nine on a weekday morning and Mrs Delancey was wearing a man's yellow silk robe, her hair wild round her face as if it had not seen a brush in several weeks. It was possible she had been crying, or perhaps her eyes were puffy from sleep.

  'Thank you,' she said, after a minute. 'That's - that's very kind. What do I do?'

  Behind her, Laura could see a clothes-airer draped with damp, crumpled clothing. All the items were pinkish, as if they had been infected by a rogue red sock. 'Do?'

  'At the coffee morning. You want me to play?'

  Laura blinked. 'Play? No, you just turn up. It's all very relaxed, very informal. It's a way for us to introduce ourselves. We're quite isolated out here, after all.'

  The woman looked at the derelict outbuildings beside the house, the empty lake, and Laura suspected suddenly that this was how she liked it. 'Thank you,' she said eventually. 'It's kind of you to think of me.'

  Laura hadn't wanted to invite her. Although she hid her feelings from Matt - she believed it was pointless to carp about things you couldn't change - she resented the new owner of the house almost as much as he did. That the woman was from London and seemingly had no knowledge of or interest in the area or the land had made it worse. But Matt had suddenly become keen that the two women make friends. 'Get her out and about a bit. Get close to her,' he urged.

  'But we might not even like each other. The Cousins say she's a bit . . . different.'

  'She seems all right. She has kids. You've got that in common. What happened to noblesse oblige?'

  'I don't understand, Matt,' she had protested. 'You were completely against her until last week, and now you want us to be best friends.'

  'Trust me, Laura,' he had said. When he smiled down at her, she could see amusement in his eyes. 'It'll all work out.'

  Trust me, she thought, refilling the coffee filter. How many times had she heard that?

  'Do you think she has any idea what she's taking on? Michelle, pass me one of those lovely biscuits. No, the chocolate ones. Thank you.'

  'It's in an awful state. Well, Laura would know - Laura, you said it was in an awful state, didn't you?'

  'I did,' said Laura, putting a tray down on the coffee-table and picking up an empty cup.

  'I'm not even sure what you'd do with it. It's such an odd place. And so isolated all the way out there in the woods. At least you can almost see the road from yours, Laura.'

  'Perhaps she's got money. I suppose the advantage of taking on somewhere like that is that there's almost nothing worth saving. You could just go mad. Build a glass extension or something.'

  'I'd knock the outbuildings down first. They're about to fall down anyway. Can't be safe with children around.'

  Laura knew what was coming before Polly Keyes spoke. 'Don't you mind, Laura? All that work you put in with that awful old man, and then not getting the house. You're very generous to invite her here.'

  She had braced herself for this. 'Oh, no,' she lied. 'I was never particularly keen on it. It was Matt who had big ideas. You know him and his projects. He saw it as a blank canvas. Sugar, anyone?'

  Annette put her cup on its saucer. 'You are good. When I lost the rectory I howled for a week. I knew every inch of that house. I'd been waiting years for it. It went to sealed bids, and the agents told us the old owners went with the Durfords even though we offered more. What could we do? Of course, we're very happy in our house now. Especially now the extension's finished.'

  Polly sniffed. 'I think Mr Pottisworth was very mean not to leave you anything. You were so good to him.'

  Laura wished they'd change the subject. 'Oh, he left us some bits and bobs, some furniture. He told us ages ago it should be ours. It's still in the garage. I think Matt wants to treat it for worm before we do anything with it.' She thought of the shoddy old bureau, now diplomatically covered with a blanket. Matt hadn't wanted it, and she had thought it ugly, but he'd said he was damned if that woman was going to get a single thing she wasn't entitled to.

  'Matt's going over there later to help her assess what needs doing. He knows the house better than anyone, after all.'

  'Well, you're both very generous befriending her in the circumstances. Oh - oh, shush! Was that the doorbell?' Polly said excitedly.

  'Try not to talk too much about your husbands, girls. The Cousins say she's quite recently widowed . . .' Annette told them. Then a thought struck her. 'You could talk about yours, Nancy. You're never nice about him.'

  Isabel Delancey walked into the overheated room and felt the weight of eight pairs of eyes settle heavily upon her. In them, she saw that they knew she was a widow, thought her clothes eccentric, and disapproved of her lateness. She was amazed at how judged one could feel in a split-second silence. Then the eyes dropped to her feet. Her dark red suede boots were covered with a thick crust of mud.

  'Oh!' she exclaimed, noticing the footprints behind her. 'I'm so sorry.' She stooped and made as if to pull them off, but a chorus of voices leaped in.

  'Oh, please don't worry.'

  'It's what vacuum-cleaners are for.'

  'You should see what my children tread in.'

  Persuaded not to remove her footwear, even though most of the other women had taken off theirs, Isabel was led to an empty seat and invited to sit. She smiled waveringly, already knowing this had been a mistake and wishing she had pleaded a prior engagement.

  'Coffee?' Laura McCarthy was smiling.

  'Thank you,' she said quietly. 'Black, please. No sugar.'

  'We were wondering if you were going to come.' A tall, prematurely grey woman with a long neck had spoken. It sounded a little like an accusation.

  'I was practising. I'm afraid I often lose track of time. Forgive me,' she said to Laura.

  'Practising?' The long-necked woman leaned forward.

  'Violin.'

  'How lovely. My Sarah is very much enjoying learning it. Her teacher says we should think about putting her in for exams. Have you been learning long, Mrs Delancey?'

  'I . . . Actually, I do it for a living.'

  'Oh. Lovely,' said a shorter woman. 'Deborah's desperate for lessons. Perhaps you can give me your number?'

  'I don't do lessons. I was with the City Symphonia.'

  The idea that she might have had a professional life appeared to dumbfound the women.

  'And you have children?'

  'Two.' God, it was hot. 'A girl and a boy.'

  'And your husband?' Two women glared at the questioner.

  'He died last year. In a car
crash.'

  'I'm so sorry,' said the woman. 'How awful for you.' There were murmurs of commiseration from around the room.

  'You're very brave, starting afresh all the way out here.'

  'It's a lovely area for children,' someone said reassuringly. 'The school is very good.'

  'And how are they finding the move? It's a big place for you to be rattling around in, with so much work to do . . . and without . . .'

  This was the point at which they were expecting her to crumble a little. If she confided how awful and decrepit the house was, how miserable her children, that she was haunted not just by the absence of her husband but by the recklessness of her own actions, those brittle glances might soften. The women would sympathise and reassure her. But something in Isabel wouldn't let her do this.

  'They're fine,' she said. 'We're settling in well.' Her tone suggested this was not a topic she wanted to pursue.

  There was a brief silence.

  'Yes,' said the grey-haired woman. 'Good. Anyway, welcome to the village.'

  As Isabel raised her cup to her lips, she noticed something odd in Laura McCarthy's expression. It vanished, and she met Isabel's smile with a broader one.

  Byron Firth lifted the metal sheath and brought it down hard, with both hands, against the fence post, the impact juddering through him as the wood sank into place. He had done twenty-two so far, ready for the wire that would mark out Matt McCarthy's boundary. A machine could have sunk the posts in a tenth of the time, but Matt was reluctant to hire one. He was paying Byron a weekly wage, and couldn't see the point in spending more. Byron would continue until the task was completed. But in the hard earth you could still feel the chill of winter, and Byron knew his shoulders would be knotted and sore that evening, and that with his sister's boyfriend a permanent guest at their house, he was unlikely to get a bath.

  She was leaving in four weeks, she had told him. She and Lily were moving into Jason's house on the other side of the village. 'You knew we couldn't stay for ever,' she said apologetically. 'Especially with Lily's chest and these damp walls. And at least you're working again. You'll find somewhere else to rent.'

  'Don't worry, I'll be fine,' he had told her. What he did not say was that the rent of every cottage he had seen so far was more than twice what Matt paid him. At the one flat he might have been able to afford dogs were not allowed and Meg was due to whelp any day. The man at the housing department had almost laughed when he had tried to sign on there. Apparently they worked on a points system, and as an able-bodied single man not on benefits, that would have been of no more value to him than flicking through the property section of Country Life.