by Anna Jacobs
She glanced sideways at the mirror and pulled a face. She had to colour her hair now to keep it red, because she’d gone grey early – not grey but pure white. It never came up as nicely as her own colour used to be, though. The last time she’d tried a new colour called ‘soft red’, but it had come out far too garish. Well, it would fade gradually and she didn’t have time to do anything about it now.
She closed her laptop and packed it in its carrying case. She wasn’t leaving that behind.
It was only eight o’clock so she switched on the TV, but there was nothing worth watching and anyway, she couldn’t settle, because she kept worrying that Donny would come home drunk again.
She had a shower and went to bed to get an early night, but couldn’t settle to sleep, either. But she felt safer in her bedroom.
Donny didn’t come home till well after the pubs closed. She heard him slamming about downstairs but gave no sign that she was awake. She’d jammed a chair under the door handle, just in case. He didn’t usually come in here, but she wasn’t risking it.
To her relief, he went straight to bed without trying to speak to her.
Thank goodness, oh, thank goodness!
But even so she didn’t sleep well. Donny’s snoring woke her several times. He always snored when he got drunk.
She kept dozing off then jerking awake, listening, worrying – was glad when dawn slowly brightened the world.
Ginger used the bathroom and got dressed, but didn’t go downstairs. She went back into her bedroom and didn’t leave it till after Donny had gone to work. She used the time to pack her final bits and pieces and scribble a note to him, repeating that he had one week to get out. Then she stood staring out of the window, waiting to see him go.
Only then did she leave her room. The kitchen was in a mess and he’d vomited in the sink last night, the pig. Hadn’t even rinsed it away. Ugh!
The smell put her off her breakfast, so she cleared out the fridge, wiped it clean and switched it off. She took some food with her to save buying meals and gave the rest to Kerry.
On the way out with her suitcase, Ginger stopped at the front door and stared back down the narrow hall. She had a sudden feeling she’d not be living in this house again, one of her tingly presentiments that came true, more often than not. Which was strange, because she was planning to return, of course she was, whether she got this wonderful opportunity or not. She hadn’t lived anywhere else than this house for over twenty years, had she?
She probably wouldn’t succeed at tomorrow’s interview, anyway. She’d never been lucky, had had to work damned hard for every single thing she’d got in her life. But she’d give it a good try. It’d be practise at interviews if nothing else.
If she didn’t get the job, she’d been thinking she might take an Open University course and gain a qualification of some sort. She’d read avidly all her life and watched current affairs on TV, so considered herself fairly knowledgeable about the world. Only, to get a decent job you needed an actual piece of paper saying you could do it.
Ah, she was silly thinking like that. She should concentrate on what to say at the interview. One step at a time.
Whatever happened, she wasn’t going to live with Donny again. No way.
A tear or two escaped as she drove towards the motorway. Raindrops spattered against the windscreen as if the weather was in sympathy with her. She wiped the moisture away from her cheeks with one hand, but more tears followed.
Well, she was only human, wasn’t she? When your only son treated you so badly, you had a right to cry.
Chapter Two
Wiltshire
Saffron Lane was bathed in sunshine for most of the morning but during the early afternoon the brightness faded and clouds started to drift across the sky. There were only two houses occupied in the short street. The six 1930s houses had been left untouched for decades because the War Office had commandeered them during the Second World War.
The government had held on to them for a few decades after the fighting ended and the cold war began. When it eventually returned them to the owner, she was so old and frail she hadn’t bothered to do anything with them.
Angus Denning had inherited the family property from her, but he’d had enough on his plate renovating the small stately home on two acres tucked away on the edge of the town centre at the top end of Peppercorn Street. Apart from checking that the houses were weatherproof and no danger to anyone, he’d left them alone.
Recently, however, he’d turned his attention to Saffron Lane again and had renovated the houses in the hopes of generating some ongoing income to help with the maintenance of the big house.
He and his new wife had decided to set up an artists’ colony here, offering free start-up residencies to suitable tenants. They were also planning to set up a café/gallery on the ground floor of Number 1 to display the artists’ wares. They would, of course, take a percentage of the sales money as well as the profits from the café, and later on rents would be charged for the houses.
The first two artists were now in residence.
At Number 2, Stacy Walsh put down her small electric welder and eased her shoulders as she studied her latest creation. The long-legged, two-foot-high metal bird wasn’t finished yet, but it already seemed to be eyeing her cheekily, head on one side. She smiled back at it involuntarily.
It had definitely begun to acquire a personality of its own, as most of her small animal sculptures did. They might be made from odd pieces of scrap metal but somehow she had a gift for seeing what she could bring to life by putting them together. To her delight she had now started to sell the finished pieces.
She also liked to make steam-punk-style installations, the sort of thing her parents called Heath Robinson creations. She loved Heath Robinson’s cartoons and valued this compliment, but the installations took a lot longer to make than the little animals. She’d sold the last one to the owner, Angus Denning, when she moved here.
The tenancy of this house was allowing her to work full-time on her art, which was bliss, especially after the hassles, financial and otherwise, involved in the recent break-up of her marriage.
She’d had enough working for the moment and wondered if Elise next door would fancy a coffee break. On the off chance, she put the kettle on and went out into the long, narrow rear garden that the first four houses shared, peering unashamedly into the next house. She could see her friend sitting at the table in the back room with a sketchbook open in front of her. Elise was staring into space, not working, which usually meant she’d be happy to take a break.
When Stacy rapped on the window, Elise jerked in shock, then smiled and beckoned her inside.
‘Do join me. I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘Mine’s about to boil and I’ve got some chocolate cake left.’
Elise stood up. ‘In that case, I’ll be happy to help you eat it.’
They left the house the front way, because at nearly seventy-six, Elise preferred the more stable footing of the paved paths to the uneven grass. Strange, Stacy thought, how well the two of them got on, in spite of the fifty or so years between them. And it wasn’t as if Elise felt like a grandmother figure – on the contrary, she had a lively enquiring mind and seemed young at heart.
As Stacy was about to open her front door, a car drew up at Number 1 and a man got out. He gave them a cursory nod and frowned as he checked his watch. He must be expecting to meet someone.
When they went inside, Elise gestured towards the street. ‘I’m unashamedly nosey. I’ll keep an eye on him while you brew a pot of tea, shall I?’
‘Yes, please. I’m not ashamed of being nosey when it comes to possible neighbours.’
The older woman went over to the window and kept up a running commentary. ‘He’s pacing up and down. Now he’s peering into the front window of Number 1. He’s looking at his watch again. Oh, bother! He’s gone round the back. Can you see him?’
Stacy peered out of the kitchen window. ‘Yes. He’s
trying the back door. I think we ought to call Angus. A burglar wouldn’t usually try to break in at this time of day, especially when he knows we’ve seen him, but still, better safe than sorry.’
She picked up the phone and rang their landlord at the big house.
‘I’ll be down straight away,’ Angus said. ‘Can’t be too careful.’
Stacy put the phone back in its cradle. ‘Shall we have our tea in the front room for a change? I’m sure you’re as curious as I am to see what’s going on.’
‘Good idea.’ For all her silver hair and wrinkles, Elise had a cheeky urchin’s grin, which in some weird way rather reminded Stacy of her bird sculpture.
The stranger was back to pacing up and down in front of the end house by the time Angus arrived. He swung round at the sound of a car then looked disappointed.
‘Can I help you?’ Angus asked. ‘I’m the owner of this estate.’
‘Ah, yes. Angus Denning, isn’t it? I’m Emil Kinnaird, Jason’s son.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’
The two men shook hands.
‘You and my father have spoken on the phone and emailed, I gather. He was tied up today so he sent me in his place. I’m going to take some photographs for him, at least I am if the local heritage officer turns up as arranged.’
‘Who?’
‘Charlene Brody.’ He looked at his watch again. ‘I was expecting her to be here. Do you know her?’
He saw his companion’s expression lose its warmth and raised one eyebrow. ‘Not a friend of yours from the look on your face, I’d guess?’
‘Not exactly. She’s employed by the council and she isn’t really a heritage officer. There’s a regional heritage group that I’m dealing with, who are the real experts, but she’s not part of it.’
‘That’s strange.’
‘She’s rather annoying, like a wasp that’s got into the kitchen and won’t be shooed out. She’s only supposed to liaise and keep an eye on such matters for the council, but she’s overkeen and keeps trying to manage things. As we haven’t played her game, she’s inundated me and my wife with paperwork about Dennings. I think she’s out to make her name and gain a promotion. Her former manager was arrested recently, you see, and she’s acting in the job.’
‘Ah. I must say, she was very emphatic that I deal only with her.’
‘Actually, since I own this property, any visits should have been referred to me before they were arranged. As far as I know, Ms Brody doesn’t even have a key.’
‘But she mentioned letting me in, so she must have, surely?’
‘If she does have one, I’ll be changing the locks.’ Angus’s mobile rang just then. ‘Excuse me a minute. It’s my wife and she doesn’t ring unless it’s important.’ He took out his phone and had a brief conversation. ‘Send her down, love.’
He turned back to the stranger. ‘Ms Brody has turned up at the big house, demanding a key to this place, apparently.’
‘Demanding?’
‘That’s how she usually makes requests. She’s been trying to get hold of a key ever since we found the secret communications centre from WWII hidden in the roof space.’
‘Yes. Dad told me about all that and the secret passages from it underneath the street. He’s very excited because he’s really into WWII memorabilia. I must say it sounds quite exciting to me, too.’
Angus pointed to a fenced area to the right of the house, where heavy metal sheets were bolted into place across the ground. ‘That’s where the underground passage was damaged by a lorry and exposed. We had to make sure there was no way anyone could get in, so the barrier is a bit rough and ready, but safety first, eh? We’ll make everything look better before the gallery and your father’s little museum open. There’s a lot of conservation work and cataloguing still to be done by the heritage people inside the building, so there’s also the need to protect our history from being tampered with.’
‘Well, I’m sorry Ms Brody misled us. I’ve driven down from Leeds today to look round before I take over the area office in town here. Any chance you could let me in just for a quick peep and a few more photos for Dad to gloat over?’
Before Angus could answer, a small red car suddenly turned into the street, going much too fast. It had to brake hard to park next to them without running on to the narrow pavement.
The driver got out quickly, frowning as she approached them and not wasting time on greetings. ‘Your wife has once again refused to give the council a key, Mr Denning. I really must protest at the way you’re keeping our officials away from this property.’
‘It’s still not been made safe. And even when it has, I shan’t be giving out keys to all and sundry.’
‘As I deal with heritage matters on behalf of the town council, I have a right to be involved.’
He shrugged. ‘I haven’t changed my mind from last time we discussed this. The regional heritage people are handling it. They have the necessary expertise and resources.’
Emil noticed she was tapping her foot impatiently and watched with interest to see what she’d do next. He didn’t like the sharp tone of her voice or her attitude.
When Angus didn’t make any other comment, she said even more sharply, ‘Surely you can let us in for a quick inspection now that Mr Kinnaird has come all this way to see the place?’
‘Sorry, but I can’t. It’s not open to the public, hasn’t been passed as safe by the heritage people.’
‘I just told you: I am not the public!’
‘You are as far as I’m concerned.’
‘I shall complain to a higher authority.’
He shrugged. ‘Complain away.’
She turned to Emil. ‘I’m sorry to have brought you here today to no purpose, Mr Kinnaird. I hadn’t expected Mr Denning to be so intransigent.’
She turned back to Angus and her voice grew even sharper. ‘You will definitely be hearing from the council, Mr Denning. This place is of public interest and you have no right to deny local people entry. And what’s more, it’s definitely in my remit to ensure that it’s safe and no one can get into it.’
After glaring at him for a moment or two longer, as if expecting a reply, she muttered something and got into her car.
The two men watched her drive away.
‘Phew! You’re right. She is rather wasp-like,’ Emil commented when the car had disappeared from sight. ‘An angry wasp at that.’
‘Yes. Um, look, I’m happy to give you a quick informal tour if you’ll promise not to tell on me to Ms Brody.’
Emil chuckled. He liked this guy’s style. ‘I promise.’
‘But you must promise not to touch anything, not the objects still lying around nor the furnishings. We’ve left everything exactly as it was, you see, as did the heritage people in their preliminary inspections. I had the structure of the house checked by experts because the outer wall at that side was damaged by the lorry ramming it, but they think it’s safe, because it was heavily reinforced when built. Only, as you can see, the side of the house still looks a mess as well as the ground nearby.’
‘Thanks. I’d appreciate a quick tour. Can I ask what made you offer to do that when you’ve just refused to let Ms Brody in?’
‘You seem a reasonable chap, and your father is going to fund a small museum here, so that gives your family a genuine interest in getting this development right. That woman has no reason to get involved and she doesn’t give a toss about the history of the place. I do, the real heritage people do and, of course, your father does. Presumably you share his interest?’
‘Not to the same extent but I do think what the British people did to hold off an invasion during the war was incredible. Dad says the terrorists are underestimating them today, as well.’
‘Yes. The more I learn about World War II, the more proud I am to be British.’
‘My father has been looking to do something to honour his father’s memory for a while. He’s very proud of my grandfather’s secret contribution to the war effort
, and now that the authorities are releasing information about Bletchley Park and other formerly hush-hush war projects, the time seems ripe and this is the perfect opportunity to do it in a small way, because he’s not a billionaire.’
‘There were a lot of unsung heroes at Bletchley Park whose deeds are only just coming to light.’
Both men were silent for a moment or two in respect to those who’d worked without glory or fanfares to protect their country. Then Angus opened the front door of the first house, ushering Emil inside and locking the door behind them.
‘Just in case she comes back.’ His smile faded as they walked through the ground floor and saw Ms Brody standing outside the rear French windows peering in. ‘Talk of the devil. Look at that!’
‘You’ve got to give her marks for persistence,’ Emil commented.
‘I don’t give her marks for anything!’
The heritage officer rapped on the windows and when Angus made no move to let her in, she rapped again.
He went closer to the window and yelled, ‘Go away! You’re trespassing.’
She folded her arms and glared at him. ‘I’m not going anywhere till I’ve checked the inside of this house.’
Angus turned away. ‘She can stand there like patience on a monument, then. If she’d been a reasonable person I’d have let her in as a matter of courtesy. Now, forget about her. Let’s get on with our tour. There’s nothing to see downstairs. They kept it like a normal house. We’re going to turn it into an art gallery and café.’
He gestured to one side of the room. ‘The communications room is accessed via a concealed door in the hall. You can also get to it from the cellar via a secret passage, as your father no doubt told you, but we’re keeping the entrance closed for the moment so that it doesn’t show.’
‘Amazing.’
‘Yes. If Hitler had managed to invade Britain, certain people would have worked here and in other hidden places to resist them.’ He demonstrated the concealed door on the first floor. ‘Come in.’
