Chapter Thirteen
In her short time at the cottage, Bella had found the circumstances of working in such a large open space as the room in the roof to be a little intimidating. Earlier in the week she had spotted an advertisement in the Dorchester Echo announcing an antiques fair in the town, on Sunday, and thought she might go along to see if she could pick up some screens. Strategically placed, they would serve to give the effect of a more intimate working area. The ad was pinned to the notice board in the kitchen, as a reminder, and it caught her attention as she went to the fridge to get some milk for Ubix. So far the omens for the day were not good. After the unwelcome interruption of her night’s sleep Bella had lain awake for a long time before eventually drifting off. When the sound of the phone’s insistent beckoning had roused her she swam to the surface of wakefulness annoyed that she’d only just succeeded in falling asleep. A bleary-eyed squint at the radio alarm put the lie to her assumption. It was nearly 7.30am and her drowsiness was short-lived, detonated out of existence by the acid tones of Laura’s abusive voice when she put the phone to her ear. Bella held the phone away from her while the invective continued unabated and she made no attempt to interrupt but neither was she given the opportunity as the tirade went on. Certain words were more audible than others leaving her in doubt as to the reason for the call. Then, after screaming a final obscenity, there was an overwhelming silence as powerful in its own way as the unbridled ranting that she had just been subjected to. Bella lay there like she had been captured in freeze-frame, the phone held away from her ear as though Laura was still on the line, stunned into a state of mild shock by the minacious nature of her sister’s call.
She yawned as she poured the milk into the cat’s bowl. A stray thought captured her attention as she recalled a moment from the previous day, when she and Ben were at Corfe Castle, and he had slipped his arm around her and she smiled at the memory. There were many things about him she liked, but enough for them to establish a permanent relationship? Recognising that she was becoming less impulsive than she used to be, Bella preferred to let things go on as they were and see what happened. More than ever before there was a purpose to her life now and there were other considerations besides a relationship, other priorities she would give precedence to. Bella yawned again feeling the urge to sit down and collect her thoughts. A disturbed night’s sleep always made her feel slothful and lacklustre and certainly wasn’t an aid to clear thinking. Neither was the vitriolic nature of Laura’s phone call and she gave an involuntary shiver at the memory it. Sitting down on one of the chairs at the kitchen table she rested her forehead on the upturned palms of her hands, elbows on the table, and sighed audibly. The recurring dream was beginning to unsettle her yet it wasn’t that frightening she told herself not like a true nightmare where she might wake up screaming, God forbid. It was the feeling of being hunted down like a wild animal, of the inevitability of being caught, only to wake up before that final act took place. Not that wake up came anywhere near describing the process that propelled her into consciousness. Sitting up in bed suddenly like she was spring-loaded, drenched in perspiration with a wildly beating heart, couldn’t even in the loosest of terms be described as waking up. Her eyes were tired, gritty and she rubbed at them gently with the palms of her hands not knowing what to make of it all. Content to sit in a state of suspended animation, Bella let her mind wander through the events of the past few weeks since Willow Cottage had come into her possession.
In a short space of time her life had been turned upside down and strangers had entered her world like players taking the stage to assume roles in a new production. As for the idyllic first impressions of the cottage, these were now tempered by an indefinable sense of...what exactly? She found it impossible to articulate but her thoughts kept returning to Cora Flint, someone who’d been associated with Willow Cottage over a long period of time therefore the odds on her knowing intimate details of its history should be excellent. Would she be able to offer an explanation, though, if she was given details of the dream? On the other hand, Bella thought rather glumly, even if she knew anything would she be likely to reveal it to a stranger from outside the village community? That could be a problem. Rather than daunting Bella, the prospect of tackling Mrs. Flint served to brighten her up. If her housekeeper could shed some light on the reason behind her nocturnal disturbances, she would be extremely grateful. On that positive note, she finally eased herself up from the table, determined now to try and salvage something from the day. Maybe a trip to Dorchester would prove therapeutic. Even though Bella felt jaded, there was an underlying compulsion to return to her writing, to keep up the impetus now that the initial barrier had been removed. After the unsettling episodes of the past twenty-four hours she needed a distraction, something to occupy her mind with, to flush out the mental detritus and clear her head in order that she could concentrate on her craft.
Thursday couldn’t come soon enough now that she had got it into her mind to speak to Cora about her dream and Bella awoke on the Thursday morning with a keen sense of anticipation reinforced by the bright sunlight that poured into her room as she pulled the curtains. She was certain that it heralded a good day, in more ways than one, and she went off to have her shower in excellent spirits. Some instinct which she couldn’t explain dictated that she take more care with her make-up than she was used to doing of late and
Bella took more time than usual over her choice of clothes in preparation for approaching her housekeeper. It was, if anything, she supposed a matter of confidence, using the weapons from her armoury to their best advantage but she couldn’t help smiling at herself in the dressing table mirror as she applied her mascara. As her writing had assumed greater depth over the years and she had become a more canny observer of the human condition, the influence of one person’s personality over another and the effects it could have fascinated her more and more. What had caused her to smile was the comparison between her own relationship with her housekeeper in London to that of hers with the redoubtable Mrs. Flint. Maureen Sparks, who cleaned her Holland Park apartment, was a down-to-earth, middle-aged mother of four who liked a bit of a gossip. That wasn’t to say she was idle by any means. For the two years that she had been employed by Bella she had proved to be an exemplary worker who would stop to pass the time of day with her if she was around. Every once in a while they would enjoy a coffee together and Bella would be brought up-to-date with the latest goings on in the Sparks family, including some of the most intimate details Bella could have done without but that was Maureen. It was an easy-going relationship free from any perceived shackles of a social order and Mrs. Sparks had seen her in everything from a towel to a nightie and never batted an eyelid yet here she was dressing up to speak to her Dorset housekeeper! Why couldn’t she just slip into an old pair of jeans and put her hair up like she usually would if she was going upstairs to work and treat Cora in the same way as she did Mrs. Sparks? It was a question she couldn’t answer, only knowing that she felt more comfortable looking and feeling as feminine as possible in the presence of a woman who most definitely wasn’t.
By the time she was happy with her appearance, Bella realised it was getting on for 8.30am, with Cora and Joshua Bodkin liable to turn up at any minute. A frisson of excitement stirred within her in expectation of their arrival as she made her way down to the kitchen to make some toast and put the coffee on. Most unusually, Ubix was nowhere to be seen but she figured that the cat wasn’t liable to be far away, more than likely curled up asleep under the computer desk. On the kitchen wall, next to the fridge, was a large calendar, a gift from her publishers. Out of habit she checked to confirm the date and was surprised to discover that two weeks had passed since her unfortunate accident with the car. Two weeks! She found it almost impossible to believe. Where had the time gone? What with Jane’s visit, starting work on the book, the appearance of her new gardener then the drama and excitement of the past weekend, time had become an irrelevant dimension, a casualty of mor
e pressing considerations. Previously, the most noticeable corollary of the passage of time in Bella’s case, as with many women, was related to growing older and the cosmetic challenge of trying to combat its effects. Now the first thought that entered her head was that she was two weeks closer to the deadline for the book and what had she achieved? It was a sobering thought and she
realised that something had to be done, a routine organised, targets set, to enable her to reach the objective. Less interruptions, more hours at the keyboard starting right away, she conceded. All thoughts of Cora Flint had been banished from her mind by the exigency of the situation as she recognised it was yet another price she had to pay for her recent success. Thank God for this place, she thought, slipping the bread in the toaster. Things would be so much more difficult in London with all the disturbances. With a perfect sense of timing, as if to remind her that she wasn’t entirely free of disturbances at Willow Cottage, someone rung the front door bell.
“Cora!” she breathed, softly, reminding herself to use the woman's christian name. Wiping her hands on the dishcloth she went out to the lobby, to answer the door.
“Mornin’!” It was said in a brisk, workmanlike way, more a statement of fact than a greeting, the eyes cold and unsmiling under her broad forehead.
“Hello Cora!” Bella replied warmly, with enough cheeriness for the two of them. “Joshua with you, is he?” Mrs. Flint gave a brisk movement of her head to indicate that the gardener had gone round the side of the house, to the back garden.
“He’d be on the job by now, so I’d best be comin’ in and makin’ a start, Miss Foxton.” And without more ado she stepped forward and Bella stepped back to hold the door open for her.
“Yes, come in, Cora,” she agreed, as her housekeeper advanced on the kitchen, out of earshot. I’ve just got to pick the right time, Bella instructed herself, as if there’s such a thing as the right time with someone like Cora. Maybe it’s better to dive in head first and see what happens. She was standing at the worktop, on the right-hand side of the kitchen, buttering the toast, as Mrs. Flint came in from the laundry.
“Why don’t you take your breakfast up with you, then you won’t be getting under my feet?” she suggested. I’m sure she means well, Bella thought, but why does she have to make it sound like an order.
“Good idea, Cora,” she replied, as though she’d never have thought of it but made no effort to move. “Cora…” she began hesitantly, causing the woman to tut and a frown to wrinkle her brow. What is it now? her look asked, in exasperation, and Bella was left with no option but to press on.
“You were born in the village, presumably?” Bella tried to make the question appear as light-hearted as possible.
“If I were, what of it?” Cora Flint fired back, as if it was an accusation rather than a question and Bella looked mortified.
“Nothing!” she replied, anxiously. “I’m not prying, please don’t think that, but if you were born here you’d probably know as much as anyone around here about Willow Cottage.” There, she’d said it! And she’d noticed a reaction in Mrs. Flint. A slight stiffening of her body, the shoulders going back, as if the rigidity of her stance would repel any verbal assault. Her eyes had narrowed too to show that her mind’s defences were on red alert to detect any subterfuge, any devious attempt to outwit her by the alien outsider. It was exactly what Bella had hoped to avoid.
“What’s there to know about Willow Cottage? I don’t know what you’m meanin’? Anyway, I’m busy an’ I’ve got to get on!” She made to walk away but Bella put a hand on her arm, to stay her. Cora Flint looked at it, contemptuously.
“Look, I don’t mean to offend or embarrass you,” Bella apologised, removing her hand, “but please allow me to explain.” For a moment it appeared as if her housekeeper was plagued by uncertainty. Hers was not a pretty face with its bold, fleshy features set in a stern grimace but her eyes were alive, searching the room as if looking for an escape route while she considered what to do. After what, to Bella, seemed an eternity she came to a decision.
“What is it you want then, Miss Foxton.” Inwardly, Bella sighed with relief but dare not show it. The first hurdle had been cleared. The question was, how far along the track would she be allowed to get? She longed to say to Cora: ‘Don’t worry about the housework, for the moment. Come into the lounge and sit down and I can tell you what this is all about.’ Maureen Sparks would have been in there in a flash, eager to know what was going on.
“I love this place, Cora,” she began, in an attempt to put the woman’s mind at rest, “and I’m very happy here…” Cora Flint shuffled her feet and exhaled noisily through her nose as if to say get on with it. “…but I’ve been wondering, with your association with Willow Cottage…” She wasn’t finding it easy, with the big woman staring her down.
“Yes?” Mrs Flint asked, impatiently. Bella closed her eyes briefly, thinking ‘it’s now or never,’ and took the plunge.
“I’ve had this dream, several times now, since I’ve been here and I wonder, if I tell you about it, whether it would make any sense to you?” Immediately the words were out she realised how foolish it sounded. Almost as though she were a little girl, frightened of the dark. Was it scorn she saw in Cora Flint’s eyes?
“A dream, Miss Foxton?” she said, incredulously. “Why should I be knowin’ anythin’ about a dream.” The tone was dismissive, as though the whole thing was too silly for words. “I been a housekeeper here, nothin’ more. I’m not a gypsy woman with a crystal ball!” Was she actually laughing at her, Bella wondered, wishing now that she hadn’t brought the subject up in the first place. But then a reaction set in, an annoyed response to the woman’s attitude, prompting her to not only describe the dream to Cora Flint but also ask her about the cat, and the flowers in the bedroom at the end of the hall. Not content with leaving it at that, and wanting to get it all off her chest, she even mentioned how Jane had felt uncomfortable in the cottage when she’d come to stay for the weekend. Her piece said she waited on tenterhooks clinging to the slimmest hope that, against all expectations, her housekeeper might be able to offer an explanation for any of the circumstances of which she had spoken. Cora’s face was unreadable. It was impossible to tell what was going on underneath that stony glare, what reaction was taking place, but the longer Bella waited for a reply the less confident she became of getting any answers. With Cora Flint eventually poised to speak Bella instinctively knew, with unequivocal certainty, that the words weren’t going to be what she had wanted to hear.
“They say you’m a writer. Books an’ all, is that right?” She had raised herself up, tilting her head back slightly as if looking down her nose at Bella, almost as though there was something distasteful in what she had just said. It made Bella wonder if she ought to apologise for her vocation and then she felt an overwhelming urge to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. How could she feel vaguely threatened by her own housekeeper? It was ludicrous but it was her own fault, a situation of her own making, no one else’s. Was it Eleanor Roosevelt who’d said no one can intimidate you unless you let them? She resolved, there and then, to take a different tack with Cora, more relaxed, and treat her like any other human being.
“Yes, I’m a writer, Cora, so it’s all probably in my imagination, right?” she suggested, with a smile, to lighten the mood.
“Hm, there’s no telling what goes on in some folks’ ‘eads. Look at poor Alfie.” She studied the kitchen ceiling, thoughtfully, as if she were able to see right through it to the room above. Then she lowered her head till her eyes met Bella’s. There was a cold detachment in her look giving Bella the impression that the woman was pre-occupied with other thoughts as she spoke.
“There ‘ave been some comin’s an’ goin’s ‘ere, right enough.” She paused, seeming now to concentrate on the present. Absent-mindedly she brushed at some imaginary fluff on the ample bodice of her black dress. “But what you talk of… dreams an’ cats an’ all,” she said the words in a
fanciful way, like it was some childhood fantasy. “I know nothin’ ‘bout things like that. As for flowers, Miss Foxton, I just likes to brighten that dark little room up. No ‘arm in that, is there?” No harm at all, Bella thought, as she watched Cora Flint turn to leave the kitchen, the woman obviously considering their conversation to be over. She stopped at the door, turning back to look at Bella.
“I’ll go up and get your washin’ then, Miss Foxton. Best you be getting’ on, isn’t it?”
The following evening, in the room above the saloon bar of The Lamb, Samuel Handysides presided over another meeting of the small group of local residents that had met there recently. The only addition to their number was a big woman, dressed in black, whose sombre presence set the tone of the gathering and was the reason for them all coming together. Cora Flint sat, aloof and unsmiling, at the opposite end of the table to the publican, waiting for Samuel to call the meeting to order. Around her, muted conversations were taking place, and woven through the gloomy, pressing atmosphere was a sense of morbid expectation which affected them all, as they waited for the meeting to begin. It was reflected in their pale, serious faces as Samuel Handysides got to his feet and silence descended on the room.
“You all knows why you’re ‘ere,” he began, “so I think it’s best to let ‘etty say her piece then I’ll throw the meetin’ open to discussion when she’s finished.” There were grave nods around the table as he turned his attention to the woman facing him. “So if you’d like to tell us, in your own time, what happened yesterday Cora.” As he returned to his seat, Cora Flint got to her feet, slowly surveying the faces of the other people in the room, people she’d known all her life. They were all waiting expectantly, aware that what Cora had to say could possibly change their lives in some dramatic way.
The Knapthorne Conspiracy Page 23
