by Allan, Gilli
‘You didn’t get on?’
‘I’d not have been surprised to find it all left to the Maggie Thatcher Deification Society.’ Stefan looked down at his feet, then up again, as if aware further explanation was awaited. ‘There was a lot of baggage. I wasn’t what he wanted me to be. The name, Novak, is Czech. My parents escaped the Soviet crackdown, but after settling here, my mother found she was expecting a child. They’d been married for years. I’ve always suspected my arrival was unwelcome.’
‘Home tuition isn’t lightly entered into for an unloved, unwanted child. It requires a huge commitment of energy and ambition.’
‘Too much ambition. After my mother died I was sent to the Boys High School. But I couldn’t live up to expectations. There was always a gulf between my father and me. Age gap, temperament, aptitude, politics. Now I understand him better. Coming from their background, economic liberalism must have looked like the answer.’
‘They weren’t the only ones who thought that. But look what happened.’
Stefan inclined his head. ‘I was expected to agree with my father and follow in his footsteps. He just assumed I’d be an academic, or at the very least that I should have a profession he approved of. Instead, we argued about everything. I was determined to follow my own star.’
‘Art? The sculptures in the house are yours?’
He nodded, but then, drawing his hand down over his face, he shook his head. ‘But he never believed I’d do it.’
‘You proved him wrong. They’re fabulous.’
‘Have I? Sometimes I wonder why I bothered.’ Stefan regarded her steadily for a moment. ‘I was contacted when he got ill. He was deteriorating fast, so I came home, expecting it to be no more than weeks. But he lingered and then I found I was the beneficiary after all. It’s difficult, when you feel you don’t deserve it, to properly appreciate good fortune.’
His words resonated. ‘I know what you mean. Our mother died last year. It wasn’t that I didn’t get on with her, but my life had moved me to London, and those last few years after our father died, when she aged so suddenly …’ She paused. ‘It was Fran she depended on. But we inherited equal shares. For children, there’s no escape from that sense of guilt and inadequacy. I suppose it’s part of the package passed on by the previous generation, along with their genes.’
‘And when the parents die those feelings of regret and failure are magnified.’
‘But it sounds like you had the opportunity to redeem something in your relationship with your father, the chance to make some recompense by coming home to care for him.’
Stefan had been staring through the trees. He glanced sideways.
‘If there’d been anyone else, I probably wouldn’t have.’ Then he added, ‘But I suppose it’s a two-way thing. Parents have their own burden. Fear of falling short, of not saying the right thing at the right time, doing too much or too little.’
‘The latter was the kind of parenting I had,’ Dory said. ‘A kind of benign neglect. My parents, particularly my father, couldn’t be bothered with worrying about what me and my sister were going to do with our lives. It was left entirely up to us.’
Stefan looked at her for a moment then frowned. ‘Can parents ever get it right?’ He’d not mentioned a wife or children but spoke as one who knew.
‘Don’t ask me, parenthood is something I’ve avoided.’
‘You’re not …?’
‘Not married. I’ve recently split up from my partner, but we didn’t have children.’
Stefan nodded but added nothing. Dory had noticed no evidence of a woman’s recent touch in the house.
‘You haven’t said. Is there a Mrs Novak?’ ‘No.’ He seemed surprised. Either the question was intrusive or he assumed it was common knowledge. ‘I said … she died when I was ten.’
‘Your mother! No, I didn’t mean …’ Feeling stupid, she concentrated on the path. It remained uneven and undulating. A thick layer of leaves quilted the ground, but the slope was less acute. After a moment of silence he cleared his throat.
‘Sorry, I misunderstood you. There’s no wife, nor ever likely to be.’ The remark left a question hanging in the air, but Dory didn’t follow it up. Ahead of them was the back wall of the barn, where the arch of tree-cover gave way to open ground.
‘The fact you have the outbuildings makes this place particularly interesting. I’m looking for a house that has potential for running a business.’ Though keen to change the subject, she felt a twinge of guilt at misleading him. A dozen more paces and they would be back on the level and out in the light. Before she left she would have to confess that as someone on her own, the house was too big, too much of a liability.
‘What kind of business … a veterinary practice?’
A surprised laugh escaped her. ‘Where did you get that idea?’
‘You were interested in the skull. Didn’t you say you wanted to be a vet?’
‘When I was a little girl!’ Amazed at his recall, she elaborated. ‘That ambition went the way of fairy princess, pop singer, and prima ballerina …’
Dory’s foot slid. The world lurched and tipped. She uttered a strangulated cry as the inevitability – the indignity – of falling flashed up in her mind’s eye. The crunch did not come. Elbows, bottom, hands, and bag did not clatter to the ground in a humiliating sprawl. Instead, time was suspended.
The view before her eyes was altered. Through the web of interlacing branches of the tree canopy, the fading light had become an iris blue mosaic. Most of the leaves had fallen and the scent of autumn decaying to winter was in her nostrils. This is a magical place, she thought, and a pulse of unnamed emotion surged through her. With it came the comprehension that she’d been caught and held, and the beat of time restarted, ticking forward again. Aware now of the arms supporting her, everything was on the move again. The world tilted back to normal. Her scrabbling feet found secure ground. Her inward gasp of breath was the first she took.
‘Ooooh! Not very graceful! Thanks for catching me. That was quick thinking.’
‘Pure instinct.’ His arms were still around her. Her heart continued to race. She pulled away; the imperative to discover the cause of her slip overrode all else. Crouching down, she swept the leaves aside. An angled edge of rock protruded through the trodden earth by no more than a centimetre or two.
‘There’s the culprit,’ she exclaimed triumphantly, relieved to have found an explanation. ‘And the leaves beneath the top layer are slimy.’ Still crouched on the ground, Dory glanced round. Stefan was standing back, looking at her, not at the rogue ridge of stone. Disconcerted, she stood up. Leaves and twigs were clinging to the hem of her coat. ‘Funny, isn’t it?’ she said, brushing herself down. ‘How we have to find an excuse for tripping?’
‘To prove to the world we weren’t dodging pink elephants.’
To prove to you I’m not an incompetent, ditzy blonde, she amended in her head, but she gave a small, acknowledging laugh. Within moments they’d passed the propped ladder and emerged into the fading daylight. They stopped beside Dory’s buttercup yellow KA.
‘Talking of elephants,’ he gestured towards the house, with a twisted, sideways smile, ‘the white variety. Grace’s hovel next door hardly adds to the desirability of my residence.’
‘We thought she was a witch,’ Dory said, not answering the implied question. ‘She must be ancient now. She seemed old enough then.’
‘She’s got to be in her late eighties … maybe ninety or more.’
‘It must be hard for her, up on the hill here.’
‘She’s not an invalid, but getting frailer. Up to a year ago she used to drive. Her old mini is over the other side of the cottage, un-garaged, of course, completely seized up with a variety of small mammals nesting in it, I expect.’
‘Is there a bus?’
‘The nearest bus route is along the valley. Easy enough for …’ He paused. ‘Easy if you’re young and fit, but too far for Grace. If she’s determined to go som
ewhere, she’s perfectly capable of ringing a taxi.’
‘But what about support systems? Friends, relatives?’
‘No relatives apart from a nephew in New Zealand. And there don’t appear to be many friends left.’
‘Who does she turn to?’ Dory suspected she already knew. ‘How does she cope?’
‘She won’t hear of involving social services. The idea of going into sheltered accommodation terrifies her. She won’t even visit the doctor in case he sends her to hospital. Once there she thinks she’ll never come out. She’s a stalwart of the Roman Catholic Church and attends the services at St Mary’s now and then. But mostly she just summons the priest.’
‘That’s a good trick. If you can’t get to church, bring the church to you.’
‘Maybe he thinks he’ll be rewarded for his efforts,’ Stefan said with narrowed eyes, blowing out a cloud of smoke. ‘The house is tiny but there’s an acre or more of garden attached to it. A bequest to the church would be worth having, I imagine. Of course, Grace claims never to ask for help, but she somehow gets people to run around after her. My father, when he was up to it, and now me. So I do her shopping and fix the leaks because he did. She doesn’t appear to see my help as a measure of her dependency. God knows how she’ll manage when I’ve gone.’ He stopped speaking, took a last drag on the cigarette before dropping it and grinding the stub under his heel. ‘Not doing a very good job of selling the place, am I? I’d never make an estate agent.’
Dory turned and looked away from the house to the view, hazy now with the amber sun dropping behind it. This place is magical, she thought. She glanced back at him and found he was looking at her. She smiled.
‘This conversation has been a bit like a confessional,’ he said ruefully. ‘You know all about me, but I still know very little about you. Not even if you like my house enough to make an offer.’
Now was the moment to make her confession, to say, I’m sorry, it really is too big for me. The words that emerged from her mouth kept the fantasy alive. ‘I need to think about it, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, have a good Christmas.’
‘Christmas?’ he looked momentarily baffled. ‘Oh, Christmas,’ he repeated, as if remembering what it was. ‘Yes. I meant to say earlier. Good earrings. Very appropriate.’
‘My Santas!’ Dory exclaimed, clapping her hands over her frivolous earlobes. ‘God! I’d forgotten. There was a chance I’d join Fran and the others for their Christmas lunch, but …’
‘Seeing my house won out. Was it worth it?’
The idea of lingering, of chatting about anything and everything, was a beguiling one. But all he really wanted to know was whether she was serious about Kitesnest House. If she dispelled the illusion, what else was there to talk about? And might she be in danger of treading on the first tenuous shoots of friendship? Did she care?
‘It’s all right, don’t answer that. I’ll see you next … next year!’
‘Of course. And thanks again for catching me.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘He’s a sculptor, did you know? There were some fabulous pieces around the place. A wonderful series of three, in bronze, I think, depicting a falling angel.’
‘This is all seriously strange,’ Fran said. ‘I’d never come across him before so I assumed he was new to the area. Most local artists belong to a co-operative group called ArtSkape. It organises an Open Studios event in the summer.’
‘He’s only been back a year or so because his father needed care.’
‘So, what happened on Friday?’
‘Pure coincidence that he was there. He knew someone was viewing the house but didn’t expect them … me … still to be there. He’d done some shopping for his neighbour, “the mad old bat” we remember.’
‘She’s still alive? She must be ancient.’
‘She is. He took her shopping in to her and then told the estate agent he could go, and that he’d see Mrs Seymour out. But even if he wondered about the name he must have discounted the possibility we were one and the same. I was as big a surprise to him as he was to me. Let alone the childhood connection …’
‘Did you reminisce?’
‘How long ago was it?’ Peter asked.
‘Must be thirty years.’ It was Fran who answered him, but Dory felt her sister’s scrutiny. ‘So? Are you going to make an offer for his house?’
Moments passed and then she sighed. ‘Look, stop worrying. Just for a moment I allowed myself to be excited by the potential of a place like that. But you’re right, it’s far too big.’ Though she made the denial, and truly meant it, she had to acknowledge that something had irrevocably changed. Lingering now in her mind’s eye was the image in her rear-view mirror of Stefan standing beside his beaten-up car. Behind him, in the reflected light of the setting sun, the front of the house had turned apricot, its windows lit a brilliant copper.
‘You can’t fool me. You’re smitten, aren’t you?’ Fran said.
Chapter Seventeen - Stefan
Amongst the junk mail, circulars, and Christmas cards addressed to his deceased father, there was only one business letter on the doormat addressed to him. He turned it over. ‘Murrell Estate Agents’ was printed on the flap. He left the rest of the mail beside the old telephone and stuffed it into his pocket.
‘It’s gone eleven,’ he called, before opening the front door. ‘I’m waiting outside.’ There was a distant grunt.
He went no further than the veranda, but it offered no protection against the cold wind. If he’d stayed indoors, he was in danger of getting impatient. He didn’t want to lose his rag and alienate the boy. He’d given him several calls. If Dom wanted to leave it to the last minute and skip breakfast, it was up to him. He didn’t want to start acting like a father, even if the boy’s behaviour sometimes frustrated him to a pitch of anger that was hard to keep bottled up. In an attempt to distract himself, he stared at the decorative cast iron, noticing how the bright green mould that colonised the grooves picked out its swirls and curlicues. Stefan pulled the letter out of his pocket again. At first, he stared blankly, hardly able to make sense of the words. A dull weight of disappointment began to swell. This wasn’t what he’d expected, or hoped for.
Arriving back at the house, over a week ago, it was apparent that the young man from Murrells had been itching to get off to his next appointment. On being told that the client had been wandering about in the back garden for half an hour, Stefan told the estate agent to go. He would find the client, answer any questions, and see her off the premises.
The woman, who stood looking over to the sunlit common beyond the boundary of the wooded garden, was almost in silhouette. He’d sensed something familiar about her, yet when she turned he was unprepared for the physical shock of recognition that zipped through him. Given the fact he’d been told her surname, it was dim-witted in the extreme not to have made the connection. That it should then transpire she’d been one of the girls who’d blundered in on him that day, years before, made the meeting even more curious.
After the surprise, he’d found her good company; she still had on the Father Christmas earrings she’d been wearing earlier, which amused him. Though they’d talked about nothing significant, Dory seemed understanding and interested, and extremely impressed by the house and barn. And now this! How wrong could you be about someone? Two-faced bitch!
He stuffed the letter from Murrells, envelope and all, back in his pocket without looking at it again. Of course he’d known that after a survey and a search he should expect there to be some negotiation on the asking price – but that much? It was derisory. It felt like she was laughing at him. He’d rather take the house off the market and raise a mortgage on it himself. He didn’t care where he lived. As time went on he hated the house less, surely there’d come a moment when he would achieve indifference. He might just as well live here as anywhere. All he needed was the money to finance his work. She’d been right about one thing – the barn was a marvellous studio, and with the
improvements he’d made to it over the past couple of years, there was no comparison with that cramped little box near the canal.
Wanting to move had been a knee-jerk reaction to the final resolution of probate on his father’s will. It had seemed to take forever, and during that time he’d become more and more convinced that he could never work here. A clean break was necessary. If he lived modestly, the money the house might raise combined with his part-time teaching salary would be enough to finance his work for some time. But what work? So far, the move of studio to Wyvern Mill had not proved successful. He might be making good progress on his written assignments for the adult teaching certificate, but all he’d created were a couple of maquettes. Even the bust of his father had remained unfinished, as he’d left it when the old man died. Perhaps his father had been right after all. He couldn’t make it on his own. There seemed little hope of even earning a basic living from his art. No matter what he did, which way he turned, his life seemed permanently stuck in limbo.
The wind was growing wilder, with a freezing, rain-needled bite. The trees whipped back and forth, and few leaves still clung to the branches. Clouds swelled, then tumbled and shredded in a manic race across the sky. He squinted up. The sky wasn’t just grey, it was a spectrum of muted shades; striations of dove grey, of taupe, of pearl edged with slate, even a sickly yellow stain which spread then dissolved, quickly overtaken by an inky mauve. Was the fine sting of drizzle about to give way to a downpour any moment?
The boy was late. Had he bottled out? Perhaps it had been foolish to expect him to go along with the plan. Never mind that his health was at risk; he probably saw it as a humiliation. Then Stefan heard the door close behind him. He turned and, with relief, saw Dominic standing on the doorstep in his characteristic, slightly hunched pose, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his black hoodie.
‘All right?’ Stefan asked.
Dominic flicked back his long hair. ‘No.’ he said. ‘It’s not all right. I don’t want to go.’
