by Allan, Gilli
‘I want to look,’ other voices whined behind them. ‘Let me look!’
Raising his shoulder, he turned away from the other girls and approached Dory. He opened his hand. The small, muddy skull on his palm had some tissue still clinging to the jaw. Her skin prickled with goose bumps, but, under the scrutiny of her sister and friends, the maintenance of her dignity felt suddenly important.
‘What happened to it?’ she asked in a small voice, ‘It may have been hunted by a raptor, maybe an owl. Could’ve bitten through the neck and dropped the head,’ he said, calmly. ‘But it’s been here a long time. I don’t usually find skulls so clean.’
‘Why do vets need to know about skulls?’ Fran said contemptuously. She had walked away and picked up a stick and was now swiping at the undergrowth.
‘Vets need to know about animals’ anatomy, I expect.’
She had no answer to this. ‘I saw you peeing!’ she sneered. ‘Bet you are the witch’s son! Were you going to collect some of your widdle and mix it with the skull to make a magic potion?’
The boy’s cheeks flamed. ‘Hasn’t anyone told you there’s no such thing as magic and witches?’
‘Course I know that!’ Fran called over her shoulder. ‘I’m not stupid. Come on, Emily, come on, Becky, come on, sis. Let’s go. Leave skull boy to play with his bones.’
‘It’s my garden. I never asked you to come in!’ he retorted.
Surprised how the half-forgotten incident had unfolded from her subconscious, Dory could even now recall her flush of embarrassment at her sister’s taunts. She looked at her watch. Better get back. Behind her, she could hear the snap and crunch of approaching footsteps, a fleeting trace of cigarette smoke. Malcolm? For a nanosecond she expected to turn and see her ex; despite being a doctor, he was the only smoker she knew. Her mind was playing tricks. It had to be Kevin …
Chapter Fifteen- Fran
It was dark when Fran opened her eyes. She could just see the faint glimmer of her clock face. It was 5.45 a.m. She turned over and pulled the duvet up to her shoulders. Only moments passed before she became aware of a soft, rumbling snore. More disturbing was the hot, sleep-stale huff of breath that hit her face at the culmination of each gentle snore. She turned on to her back, eyes open, staring towards the ceiling as the clock ticked. All remnants of her dream dispersed, leaving her wide awake. She knew she could probably coax herself back into sleep, but a bubble of excitement began to ferment. Why not get up? She’d gain two or more undisturbed hours on the computer.
On her way to make a cup of tea, she switched on the PC. A couple of surprised dogs wandered dazedly into the kitchen, ears swivelling like feathery radar dishes. When it seemed she was going to ignore them, they leapt up, pattering their tiny paws against her legs and yapping. She opened the back door for them and filled their bowls. By the time she got back to the study the computer had booted up. Already in her Live Mail inbox was a message from Melanie. She’d look at it later. She wanted to know if anything had arrived since last night at her other address. Yes! There were two messages from ‘db’.
Within a day of that first flurry of speculative email, she’d been thrilled to find a number of responses in her Hotmail inbox. Anti-climax swiftly followed. Most were mail delivery failures. It was disappointing but not surprising, considering she had been making up email addresses. The few real replies had been ‘Sorry. You’ve got the wrong person’ messages. There’d even been a couple from women, one a Debbie and one a Davina. And then, a day or two later, there’d been the one from ‘db’.
‘Hi Fran. Gr8 2 hear from U. Wot U doing these days?’
She wasn’t stupid. She knew she had to be cautious. The inner voice that warned this person might not be her Dan Brown prompted her to pose some disguised questions in her next email. His reply was funny and quirky, and even though it failed to confirm his identity, neither was he unmasked as a fraudster. Reservations subdued, not entirely forgotten, their e-conversation continued.
Had he done anything with his art after leaving college? She admitted she hadn’t. He told her he still painted. Strange. He’d been in the graphics department; even all those years ago graphics was a discipline that was already moving away from the drawing board and T-square towards the computer. But perhaps he’d started painting in the intervening years as a relief from sitting in front of a screen?
Fran’s emails grew longer, more discursive. It was impossible not to reminisce about the old days – about mutual friends, the things they’d done, places they’d been, the bands they’d listened to. Originally his typical responses were snappy three liners in text speak. But they lengthened and became more flirtatious as the days went by.
‘R U a prisoner? If I cum 2 foot of yr tower will U let down yr hair 4 me?’
The more suggestive his messages, the more amused and excited she became, eager for the next one. Yet she adopted a stern, schoolmarm tone of reproof, adding the reminder that she had a husband and a daughter. But he was enjoying their sparring, it seemed, and instantly came back for more. Three or four a day from each of them were now winging back and forth.
‘Married? OK. But happy?’ he queried. ‘Does he luv yr fiery nature? Wld he cover U in choc & lick off?’
In response to her repeated questions, he eventually admitted that he too had been married. ‘Hitched x 2 … d’vorced x 2’, but no woman compared to her. ‘Guess wot? – still got pix of U.’ She dismissed, with a guilty shiver, the chocolate comment and concentrated on the idea that he saw her as fiery. She liked that. She liked even more the idea he had kept a picture of her. Perhaps the time had come to let him see what she looked like now. Maybe, she thought with a little flush of self-congratulation, he’d be impressed to see how she’d kept her looks. OK, she was a bit plumper, but not much since her diet, and was scarcely lined. In no time she had flicked through the digital pictures stored on the PC and found her favourite. Her husband usually chose to snap her when she was unaware – raw-faced and untidy with all her bulges hanging out. But this was a carefully posed head and shoulders shot. Behind her was a lilac sky and the copper lit Bay of Salerno. Her hair, caught by the evening breeze, was flatteringly lifted away from her face; her white lace camisole top showed off her tan and a bit of cleavage, and, best of all, because she and Peter were just about to go out for a meal, she had make-up on.
It had been their first holiday without Melanie – at fifteen she’d preferred to go with a friend’s family to a campsite in Provence. More significantly, Fran had just completed her big diet. She’d reached her target of losing three stone just before they went on that holiday to Ravello, on Italy’s Riviera coast. The picture was a few years old, but it wasn’t really a deception. She’d not aged markedly since, and though she had put on a little weight, it was still under control. Anyway, Dan wasn’t to know the difference. Fran hit the ‘send’ button before she could think better of it.
Only then did she click back to Live Mail. The email from Melanie, via Facebook, was about an Australian boy called Aden. He really, really liked her, she said. She went on to detail the things they’d done together – mainly lounging on the beach and drinking, as far as Fran could tell. An impression confirmed by the pictures on her daughter’s Facebook page. Mel gloated over his white blond hair, incredible mahogany suntan, and amazing ‘pecs’ – almost as if in shock, as if convincing her mother would help her believe that she, a plump, pale English girl, had scored the best-looking guy in town.
Getting her head back into mother/daughter gear, Fran’s instant reaction was that Aden – what kind of name was that, anyway? – looked and sounded like a beach bum, though, admittedly, a good-looking beach bum. Despite Melanie’s blatant need for approval and applause, Fran composed a cautionary response. Don’t let your heart rule your head was the gist of the message. Its subtext – don’t have sex with him. Their relationship did not allow her to be that straight with her daughter. Able to picture her frown, feel her disappointed impatience on receipt of t
he cautionary reply, she knew it would simply confirm Mel’s opinion of her ‘wet blanket’ mother. Other women seemed capable of making friends of their teenage daughters without losing respect or lowering their standards. Why couldn’t she? Her buoyant mood was diluted by regret. Yet she still hit the send button.
A warm, wet tongue curled between Fran’s toes. Nelson and Jimbo had finished their breakfast and come to find her. Whether this was a gesture of affection, or simply because they liked the faintly cheesy taste, she didn’t know. It made her giggle and lifted the momentary gloom. For a while longer she sat hoping for a reply from db, but none came. It wasn’t until she heard the flush of the loo upstairs that she shut down the PC. As she went into the kitchen to begin preparing breakfast, Fran remembered that Dory was coming round later to tell her about that ridiculous house.
Chapter Sixteen - Dory
‘Cut to the chase,’ her sister said, counting spoonfuls of coffee into the cafetière. ‘Is it the same house? What’s the verdict?’
There was a lot to tell, but Dory hesitated. Spotting the third mug on the tray, she said, ‘Is Peter here?’
‘He’s always here. Hangs around all day, messing the place up. Why do you think I like going out so much?’ The kettle switched off, and Fran poured the steaming water into the jug and gave it a stir. She led the way into the conservatory, the dogs intent on tripping her up. Dory’s brother-in-law was sitting on a rattan chair reading a newspaper. At the dogs’ barks he looked up and smiled, folding the paper haphazardly and putting it on the floor beside him.
‘All right, Dory?’
‘She’s going to tell us about the dark and dreary mansion she’s just looked at.’
‘Hi, Peter. My sister’s exaggerating, as usual.’
‘Put me out of my misconceptions then,’ Fran said.
‘It’s not a mansion but …’ Dory began, taking the mug of coffee. ‘In a way, you’re right. The house has panelling everywhere, heavy furniture, and floor to ceiling books, which gives it a gloomy atmosphere.’ An inexplicable reluctance kept her silent on the subject of the property’s ownership. Instead, and without explaining its provenance, she launched into a description of the antique pottery and painted furniture that Stefan’s parents had managed to bring with them when they escaped the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia.
‘Enough of folksy furniture,’ Fran eventually objected. ‘What about the house itself? Isn’t it just too huge?’
‘It was originally a cottage, I guess, and the frontage was added on at a later period … maybe Georgian … so the main rooms are spacious, with high ceilings and tall windows, but it is just a three-bedroom, one-box-room house. It would be pretty depressing to live in as it is now because of all the dark wood and dingy wallpaper. It needs a complete overhaul. But how likely am I to find an older house I can move into straight away, without doing anything to it?’
‘You’re not! That’s why I thought you were set on something modern. There are plenty of new-build houses in the area.’
‘Like the development that’s proposed up the road here?’ Dory queried.
‘Don’t remind me, I’ve still got the petition plus loads of letters to put into some sort of order to submit to the Council. But if the plan does go ahead, it would draw the sting a bit if you were living there.’
To live in the same village as her sister, love her though she did, was the very last thing Dory wanted. ‘The garden will be tiny.’
‘This is a bit of a turn around. I remember saying the same thing to you!’
‘And I thought you were keen for me to buy an old cottage!’
‘Seems to me,’ Peter interrupted, looking from one to the other with his eyebrows raised. ‘You two can’t survive unless you’ve something to argue about.’
‘I’m not arguing, I’m admitting Fran had a point. There are so many more possibilities in older properties. Kitesnest House needs all the panelling and doors stripped back or painted, and I’d want to knock the back living room into the kitchen, and the bathroom needs something similarly radical …’
‘Exactly. Why on earth do you want to give yourself all that hassle? There’s just one of you. By suggesting a cottage, I meant small. Somewhere that could be done up in a few months. Not a house that’s so vast and rambling it’ll take years of your life and all your resources!’
‘The grounds around it are stunning.’
‘But it’s not a proper garden, is it? It’s just trees and more trees.’
‘That’s one way of looking at it.’
‘And where’s this sudden desire for a big garden come from? It’ll only become a burden.’
‘Shut up, Fran,’ Peter said, amiably. ‘Let Dory be enthusiastic. It’s her money, and her decision. You can’t orchestrate everyone’s life for them.’
Fran glowered at her husband. ‘I just want to save her from herself,’ she said huffily. ‘Dory will buy this house with unrealistic expectations about doing it up. Those property shows are an object lesson. There are as many disasters as there are successes. However much she may want to do it, overseeing such a project could exhaust and impoverish her. I’m only trying to save my sister from unnecessary heartache.’
‘Hello? I am here. And I’ve not even told you the best bit …’ Dory smiled, sitting back with a creak of her chair. ‘There’s a barn – or should I say “coach house”. There’s loads of parking. The property isn’t listed, which is an advantage. Electricity and water are already laid on. So I could add a loo, even a full bathroom. There are a couple of modern skylight windows in the roof, making it very light already, but I’d need more, particularly if I put in a second floor. The roof space is plenty deep enough. It would be a pity, as it would probably mean covering over the beams, which are unshaped tree trunks turned silver with age, but I’ll need to be hard-nosed and businesslike if I’m serious,’ she said.
‘But are you?’
‘Serious about the barn? I could easily convert it into a clinic …’ Unable to maintain the deception, she wondered why she’d even made the attempt. ‘Stefan uses it – used it – as a studio.’
‘Stefan? Stefan Novak?’
At the faint waft of smoke and the sound of feet crunching over the leaf litter, Dory turned, expecting to see the estate agent.
Walking out of the shadows towards her – hands deep in pockets, cigarette clamped in his mouth, a frown drawing his brows together – was her art teacher, Stefan Novak. With recognition his dour expression morphed to surprise.
‘Mrs Seymour?’
Simultaneously, ‘You! What …?’ blurted from her mouth. They both stopped speaking. An uneasy pause was broken by Dory.
‘You’re not viewing this house as well? The estate agent … Kevin didn’t say. Oh! He has another appointment at three, I’d better …’
‘It’s all right. I’ve let him go. I came to find … Stupidly, I didn’t make the connection. Mrs … Isad …’
‘Call me Dory, please?’ she implored, not for the first time. ‘Just a minute, you said you’ve “let him go”. Is this your house?’
‘Yes.’
‘But that’s extraordinary!’
‘Why extraordinary? You, I presume, want to buy a house. I want to sell. A coincidence maybe, but …’ He looked down at the ground.
Hesitantly, she began, ‘I just recalled an incident from my childhood.’
Stefan raised his eyes to hers. With a dawning certainty, that sense of déjà vu,experienced on the first day of life class, washed over her again.
‘I was with my sister and some friends,’ Dory continued with growing conviction. A slight frown – more of perplexity than irritation – crumpled his brow. ‘Until I walked through the woods to the boundary here I wasn’t sure it was the same house. We climbed over this fence. We met a boy.’
‘You caught me in flagrante delicto.’ he supplied. ‘Peeing against a tree!’
‘It was you!’ Delight and surprise was followed by mortification. ‘Oh, I’m
sorry, we must have embarrassed you.’
He gave a half smile. ‘It bothered me then. I wasn’t expecting a gang of girls to come crashing through from Grace’s garden. These days I’m made of sterner stuff.’
‘Wow! You’ve got to admit that’s a really weird coincidence.’ They’d turned, and in silent agreement, began to stroll slowly back down the slope. She breathed in, savouring the scents and the sounds. ‘I think I’ve fallen in love with this garden, these woods.’ Once out of her mouth the comment sounded ludicrous, but Stefan didn’t query it.
‘It was great for me as a boy. My own personal adventure playground.’
‘Rudely interrupted by rude girls!’
‘I didn’t mind. Up till then I was home-schooled and didn’t mix much. It was interesting to meet other kids. So …’ He glanced at her sideways. ‘You have looked at the house? You’re not just here to revisit childhood haunts?’
‘I am serious about wanting to buy a place.’
‘But it’s rambling, run down, and old-fashioned,’ Stefan interrupted before she could add her qualification that it was probably too big for her needs. His pessimism woke a defensive instinct.
‘True, but that’s what makes it exciting.’
‘And would cost an arm and a leg to modernise, or so Kevin tells me.’ It was almost as if he hadn’t heard her, and was providing an easy get-out.
‘I’m not looking for perfection. It would be someone else’s perfection.’
He looked at her, eyebrows raised, as if surprised and gratified. ‘I can’t see it objectively. I grew up here but I’ve lived elsewhere for years. This was just the place my father lived. But I’ve been stuck here since before he died. You know how long it takes to probate a will? It’s been over a year and it’s only recently been settled’
‘And that’s why you’re selling now?’
‘I need the money. At least he left it to me, which, given our history, was unexpected.’ His eyes lost focus.
