by Ann Bennett
‘Do you have a place to sell yourself?’ he asks, his voice casual. ‘I take it you’re on the move?’
She focuses on his face, concentrating on keeping her eyes steady and her mouth from contorting. She tells herself she must try to appear normal, even if she feels far from it.
‘Yes, probably, quite soon,’ she says, her voice unnaturally bright.
He smiles, a professional smile, still probing. ‘Is it in the area?’ He shakes his umbrella and slips it into an oak stand beside the door.
Her fists clench involuntarily. She’s not going to tell this man that her life has imploded. That only a few hours ago she walked out on her husband with just three suitcases and a couple of tea chests to show for fifteen years of marriage. How can she talk about it to this stranger before Alex himself knows – even though she owes him nothing? Panic washes over her at the thought that she’ll have to face this type of conversation soon. People will ask, and she’ll have to tell them. How on earth will she deal with that?
‘Mrs Jennings? Are you all right?’ Jonathan Squires’ eyes are on her face.
Her cheeks are hot now. She looks away. ‘Of course.’
‘You were saying… about your own property? I’d be very happy to come and look. Do a free, no obligation valuation.’
‘That’s kind of you, but actually it’s not in the area. It’s in London. Primrose Hill.’
‘I see.’ He raises his eyebrows approvingly. ‘I take it you have children?’
Sarah clears her throat. ‘No, as a matter of fact we… I… don’t.’
From the flicker of surprise in his eyes, she understands that in that second he has reappraised her. He must be wondering if he’s misjudged the situation, thinking she’s a waste of his time after all. What would a childless, late thirty-something woman want with a huge semi-derelict place like this?
He moves quickly towards a door and switches on another light.
‘Here’s the living room. The old place needs a bit of updating, of course. No central heating, I’m afraid. Try to ignore the décor… and the furniture.’
He gives a short, derisive laugh nodding at two brown armchairs, shiny with age, either side of an enamel gas fire. A couple of faded portraits hang side by side on one wall. One is of a man with a square set jaw and wild eyes, his white hair swept back from his face, and the other of a mousy-looking woman. On a veneer coffee table are some china cups and a plate covered in crumbs. It’s as if someone has left in a hurry. Again that smell of cats, this time mixed with stale food and town gas.
Mr Squires follows Sarah’s gaze.
‘They weren’t coping very well, Miss Burroughs and her sister. When the older sister died, a few months ago, Miss Burroughs tried to carry on alone, but she’s well into her nineties now. Of course, she couldn’t manage. She had a fall you see. That was the last straw.’
‘Poor lady,’ Sarah murmurs, her eyes resting on a large leather-bound bible open on the sideboard.
‘Well –let’s move on,’ the man says briskly. ‘Come on through to the dining room.’
He strides in front of her across the hall and opens another panelled door. Sarah follows obediently. What a fraud she is, letting him think she might be interested in the house. Why didn’t she just say she wanted to stand on the porch and smoke her fag out of the rain? It’s too late now though, she’s just got to go along with the pretence.
‘Once again, needs a bit of work,’ he goes on, ‘The two Miss Burroughs lived here their whole lives. Their father, old Ezra, was superintendent of the orphanage next door. That got demolished back in the seventies or eighties I believe. Look, there’s a picture of it there. Grim looking place, wasn’t it? Started out life as a workhouse I believe.’
A shiver runs through Sarah. Above the fireplace hangs a black and white photograph. Cedar Hall, Weirfield, Berkshire – Orphanage and County School – 1910.
She stares at it. The building is just as she remembers, a forbidding edifice, acres of brick and square blank windows, but in the photograph, it appears to be occupied, unlike the carcase of a building in her mind. In the photo, children in white pinafores sit on the front steps, a horse and cart trots past on the road.
A memory surfaces, of driving past it in her father’s car on their way to London.
‘There it is, Joan,’ her father would say to her mother in a teasing voice, slowing the car so the building loomed above them, ‘my alma mater.’ And Mother would stiffen in the front seat and retort in a scandalised whisper, ‘Don’t talk like that, William. It’s no joking matter.’
Sarah would press her face to the glass, staring up with wide eyes at the blind windows. ‘Can’t we stop and have a look round?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Sarah. It’s far too upsetting for Dad. I don’t know why you insist on coming this way, William,’ her mother would snap, staring ahead rigidly.
One day though, when it was just Sarah and her father, he did stop, and they walked around the outside of the dilapidated building. There were padlocks and chains on the front door and some of the windows were shattered. He led her down an alley at the side and lifted her up to look through a high window. All she could see through the dusty glass was an empty room, as big as her school hall, with a pile of chairs and tables stacked in one corner. It looked neglected and dirty, with torn curtains at the windows and piles of bird droppings on the floor.
‘Can you remember it here, Dad?’ she’d asked as he let her down.
He laughed and took her hand, ‘Not at all. I was only a baby when I left.’
She would often lie awake as a child, staring into the darkness, thinking about that empty hall, imagining it full of children. In her mind’s eye, they looked exactly like the orphans in Oliver Twist, dressed in rags and pitifully thin. The thought they had no homes to go to would bring tears to her eyes.
‘It was quite a place, wasn’t it?’ says Jonathan Squires, breaking into her thoughts. ‘Oh, and here’s a photograph of Miss Burroughs and her sister.’
On the sideboard stands a framed sepia portrait of two fresh-faced teenage girls in floral pinafore dresses, their hair cut short. They are in a greenhouse, surrounded by plants. The shorter of the two holds a watering can and is smiling. The other is serious, staring straight at the camera, a garden fork in her hand. Sarah peers at the inscription, Connie and Evie. Cedar Lodge, 1935.
‘That’s the conservatory they’re standing in – it’s at the back of the house. I’ll show you through there now if you like. Of course, it’s deteriorated quite a bit since that photo was taken.’
He ushers her through an old-fashioned kitchen, past a butler’s sink, an enamel gas-cooker on legs and a dresser stacked with crockery. This room smells different: of cooking grease and mouse droppings.
The conservatory runs the length of the house; slatted wooden shelves line the walls, a few plants wilt in earthenware pots, and on the wall the withered remains of a vine. The pull of the past feels strong here, perhaps because of the photo of the two girls, the contrast between how it once was and what it looks like now.
‘Just one more room downstairs. I forgot to show you the office.’
Squires shows her back through the kitchen into a large square room at the side of the house. Unlike the other rooms this one is carpeted, lined with bookshelves and at one end stands an oak bureau. Sarah’s eyes are drawn to the ornate marble fireplace and above it a painting of an exotic landscape. Snow-capped mountains fade into a pale sky. In the foreground a small white church nestles incongruously amongst palm trees.
She peers at the title written in golden letters on the frame: St. John the Baptist Church, Kandaipur.
She really wants to leave now, but feels obliged to follow the man through the rest of the rooms, up the solid staircase to the first and then the second floor, into each of the bedrooms. Her eyes skate over each. They all look the same: lino on the floor, faded floral wallpaper, wooden bedsteads and heavy furniture. The bathroom contains an iron bat
htub, corroded with age. Sarah nods and makes polite noises as he opens each door.
‘I should be making a move,’ she says as they head downstairs.
‘You haven’t seen outside. Let me show you the outbuildings.’
‘No… no. Thank you, but it’s quite alright. I must be getting on.’
‘Of course, but don’t hesitate to give me a call if you’d like to come back. There’s an old coach house and stable in the back yard. There’s a room above it too. The whole block could be done up. It would make a delightful annex… should you need additional accommodation.’
He slips her a card. ‘Do let me know if you’d like to take another look.’
Back in the car the stress of the last few days and the pain of the morning hits Sarah afresh and she has to take a calming breath to stop it from overwhelming her. She starts the engine and lets it run for a few minutes while the heater clears the windscreen.
Once she’s on the road, driving through the outskirts of Weirfield, although Alex and the pain he has caused her is constantly in her thoughts, that crumbling old house, and its hidden memories, forces itself back repeatedly. A strange, tingling feeling creeps over her as she thinks about those dingy rooms frozen in time. She can’t get the faces of those two girls in the photograph out of her mind, and soon she’s thinking about them instead of Alex, wondering what their lives in that old place had been like.
It’s dark as she drives along the main road towards Henley. Rain lashes the windscreen, twigs and leaves dance in the beam of the headlights. She senses the wide river nearby, knowing it is there between gaps in the houses and woods that line the road.
Dad will be waiting for her now, watching from his kitchen window for her headlights.
‘I might need to stay for a couple of days, Dad. I hope that’s OK?’ she hadn’t explained why she was coming when she’d phoned him earlier, and he didn’t ask.
‘Of course. Stay as long as you like. I’ll make up the spare room.’
‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll do it when I get there.’
‘It’s no trouble, Sarah. No trouble at all. I’ll cook something nice for supper. One of my stews.’
He’d moved to the house when Sarah’s mother had died five years ago. Sold up the old family home in Bristol and bought himself a bijou cottage with a river frontage beside the Thames. Sarah had been surprised; it wasn’t an obvious place to retire. She’d worried that he might be lonely.
He seems busier now than ever before, though. He’s made friends at the local pub, joined the history society and the chess club and started walking with the Ramblers. He tends his vegetable plot, and has a small rowing boat moored at the end of the garden. He often potters about on the river, fishing half-heartedly.
He appears on the drive in an old knitted jumper as Sarah pulls up. When she gets out of the car he puts his arms around her and she can’t hold back the tears. He says nothing, just hugs her and strokes her hair until the sobs subside.
‘Come on inside, Sarah darling. It’s chilly out here. The kettle’s on.’
She follows him into the bright kitchen and sits down at the familiar square table. He puts a mug of hot tea in front of her. She takes a deep breath.
‘It’s Alex, Dad. He’s in some sort of trouble.’
‘Trouble? What do you mean?’
‘The police have been at the office going through the paperwork for the past two days.’
His face drops as she knew it would and he sits down opposite her.
‘Good God. What on earth for?’
‘I’m not sure. They questioned me too.’
‘What did they ask you?’
‘They were asking all about the new company Alex has set up. You know he did that recently to fund the expansion of the business. I told the police I don’t know anything about it. I haven’t had anything to do with it. They could see that once they’d checked through the paperwork. But until they’d done that they kept on questioning me. They were very thorough, Dad.’
Her father’s face is drained of colour. He suddenly looks his age, his eyes puffy and sunken. She feels his hand on hers on the table.
‘Poor you, darling. How stressful for you. Why didn’t you call me? I could have driven up to help you, given you some moral support.’
‘I didn’t want to bother you with it, Dad. And anyway, they asked me not to contact anyone other than a solicitor.’
‘Did you do that?’
She shakes her head. ‘I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong. It didn’t seem worth it. I just wanted to get the whole thing over and done with.’
‘Alex is in New York, isn’t he? Does he know?’
‘Not yet. He arrives home tonight.’
She glances at her watch. His flight will have landed by now. She pictures him strolling through the airport, his raincoat slung over one shoulder, a couple of duty-free bags in the other hand, oblivious to what awaits him.
‘They’re going to meet him in the arrivals hall and take him in for questioning.’
‘Good God! I’m stunned, Sarah. I don’t know what to say.’
They sit in silence. The nightmare of the past two days comes back to her; the humiliation of watching the team of strangers rifling through files in the office, removing boxes of papers into the Transit van parked behind the building, while she’d sat there helpless, her stomach clenched with nerves.
‘Did the police mind you coming down here?’ Dad asks, breaking the silence.
‘They didn’t need me there anymore. I couldn’t face staying, to tell you the truth.’
There’s a long pause but from his expression she knows he wants to say something.
‘Don’t you think…’ he says finally. ‘Don’t you think that perhaps… well, perhaps Alex might have wanted you to be there?’
‘Oh, Dad.’
She can’t answer him. At the moment, she can’t voice her anger. She can’t tell him that it’s not just the police investigation that made her walk out. There’s something else, something she’s finding hard to believe herself.
Dad is shaking his head, puzzled. ‘Are you sure there’s not been a mistake? Alex seems so, well, so straight down the line.’
She shakes her head and stares at the table. ‘What an absolute idiot I’ve been,’ is all she can mutter.
‘Don’t say that, Sarah. It’s not you who’s to blame.’
They sit there without speaking for a while, then he says, ‘What about the restaurant? Is someone looking after it?’
‘No, I had to close up for a couple of days. Cancel all the bookings for the weekend. Tell the staff not to come in. I made up some story about a power failure…’
She thinks about how she’d phoned through the list of clients, smoothed things over, apologised, and cancelled all the food orders from the suppliers. She’d done it all in her usual efficient way, in her professional voice, amazed that she was able to speak without betraying her feelings. It occurs to her now that perhaps that’s what she’s been doing in her own life too; smoothing everything over on the surface, refusing to accept anything is wrong. She’s been doing it for a long time.
‘I can’t go back there, Dad,’ she says suddenly.
‘But it’s your whole life darling,’ her father says gently. ‘Think carefully.’
‘I know it’s my whole life, Dad, but I can’t go back there, not after this. I can’t work with him now.’
‘It’s your business too, Sarah. Surely something can be sorted out.’
‘I can start again.’
Dad looks troubled and gets up to take the casserole out of the oven. He sets it on the side, lifts the lid and sniffs. The kitchen is filled with delicious smells of beef and garlic. When he turns back towards her she sees tears in his eyes.
‘Please don’t worry about me, Dad. I’ll be fine. I’m strong you know.’
As if on cue, her phone buzzes in her bag. Alex’s name flashes on the screen. She presses the button to cancel the call and sli
ps the phone back into the bag. She looks up at her father with a forced smile.
‘That stew smells delicious. Is it ready?’
Later, as Sarah lies wide awake in the spare bedroom, listening to the autumn wind in the trees and the ripple of the great river at the end of the garden, she tries to relax and suppress her pain. She makes an effort to empty her mind, but unprompted, the old house keeps returning. She imagines walking through those dark rooms that silently harbour their memories, decaying under the dripping cedars.
Two
Connie
If Connie turns sideways in her chair and looks away from the television screen she can see the trees outside the window. Since she’s been in the nursing home they’ve gradually turned from green to rainbow shades of russet, orange, and brown. She has measured her days here by those changing colours. When the leaves started falling from them a few days ago, the sight filled her with dread. Winter will soon be here. Then the branches will become bare black bones against a white sky.
It will be the first winter she will have faced without Evie. The first winter in her whole life that she won’t be at home at Cedar Lodge.
She hadn’t realised before they started falling, but the leaves seemed to shield her from something; to shelter her from the world and from the sky. She isn’t quite sure why it troubles her that they’ll soon all be gone. Her mind is hazy nowadays, especially since her fall, but in the back of it lurks the suspicion that he’s out there watching her, and that once the leaves have gone he’ll be able to see in through the windows. He’ll know without a shadow of a doubt that it really is her in that room in the nursing home. He’ll be able to see that she has deserted Cedar Lodge along with all his possessions and memories; abandoned them to fate when he would have expected her to stay there, his appointed guardian, until the day she dies.
She’s still angry with herself for tripping over the cat on the kitchen step and breaking her leg. Poor old Felix. It wasn’t his fault, but she had hurt him too when she fell on him. They’d told her, when she got a little better, that he’d had to be put down.
