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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: Peppercorn
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
The houses in Saffron Lane are being filled with artists thanks to the efforts of Nell and Angus. Ginger doesn't win a place there, but gets a job running the small café/art gallery, taking refuge there from her abusive bully of a son. When she meets Iain, sparks fly between them, the first time she's felt attracted to anyone for years. But will her son spoil it? Emil is in town to open the small museum in Saffron Lane and run his father's business. This throws new opportunities in his path, and new problems too. Will the newcomers manage to build new lives or will selfish people destroy their attempts to find happiness?
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Seitenzahl: 420
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Contents
Chapter One
Ginger waited till the café was empty to speak to Joe. She put her tray of dirty dishes down on the counter, took a deep breath and said it. ‘I need a week’s holiday, urgently.’
As she’d expected, he folded his arms and scowled at her. ‘Why?’
‘Private business.’
‘Can’t do it.’
‘You could bring Karen in full-time. She’d welcome the extra money.’
‘I don’t want Karen; I want you, Ginger. And so do the customers.’
‘If I’m so popular with them, Joe, why don’t you give me the rise I’ve been asking for? Two years it is, now, since my last rise. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. This is really important. I have to go somewhere.’
‘You haven’t said what it’s about.’
‘I already told you: it’s private.’
‘Well, I can’t do it. Even a funeral only takes half a day off usually.’
Suddenly her resentment at the way he treated her boiled over. She’d stayed because there were advantages to working within walking distance of home, not to mention the free food when leftovers couldn’t be sold any longer. But this was a once in a lifetime opportunity and she didn’t intend to miss it. She folded her arms across her chest. ‘Then I quit.’
The words seemed to echo in the air between them. He gaped at her for several seconds, then shook his head slowly. ‘You don’t mean that! You’ve been here for nearly ten years. You can have one day off and that’s it.’ He turned back to his newspaper as if the problem was solved.
It was the final straw. She left the tray on the counter and went into the back room. It only took her two minutes to dump the things from her locker into her shopping bag. When she turned round, he’d brought the tray into the kitchen and was staring at her in shock.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I just told you: I’m quitting.’ She went to stand right in front of him, so close he took an involuntary step backwards, still holding the tray.
‘I want my wages and holiday pay before I go.’ She told him the amount. She always kept an eye on the money side of things. You had to with Joe.
He shuddered and dumped the tray on the nearest surface. ‘It can’t be that much!’
‘It is. You know I’d never cheat you.’
‘That’s all very well, but I’m short of cash. Just take a couple of days’ leave, if you have to. I’ll pay you holiday rates for it after you get back.’
‘I’m not coming back to work here. If you don’t pay me now, I’ll report you to the authorities.’ She knew how carefully he avoided anything which gave officials the right to poke their noses into his affairs, so she added, ‘That’ll bring the VAT man down on you.’ She didn’t think it had anything to do with VAT, but Joe hated even to say the words and knew even less about it all than she did.
‘Take the whole damned week off, then.’
‘No. I’ve had enough of your bad temper and poor pay. I’m ready for a change. I’ll not be coming back to work here, so you’d better call Karen and start looking for a replacement for me.’
‘But—’
‘No.’
Another long silence, then he took out his wallet and counted out the money, slapping it down on the counter in front of her. ‘Don’t think I’ll have you back.’
‘I won’t even consider asking.’
She took the notes and coins, counted them again, just to be sure, and stuffed them into her purse any old how.
When she was out of sight of the café, she stopped and took a long shuddering breath.
What had she done?
As Ginger walked home, it began to rain and she put up her umbrella. She was, she admitted to herself, feeling more than a bit shaky. She’d well and truly burnt her bridges now, hadn’t she? She was a woman who valued security and usually planned every aspect of her life.
She hadn’t planned this, let alone thought it through.
‘What have you done, girl?’ she muttered as she went into the small terraced house. She looked to the right and saw her son sitting in the front room watching TV and smoking. He must have come home from work. Was it that time already?
She’d been smelling cigarettes on him for a week or two but hadn’t said anything because she was fed up of quarrels that got you nowhere. Now, the anger that had carried her through against Joe bubbled up again and gave her the courage to stand up to her thirty-year-old son, who seemed to be getting nastier by the month.
‘How many times do I have to tell you, Donny? I’m not having smoking in this house. Even your father did his smoking outside. If you want to follow his example and die of lung cancer, you can do it somewhere else. I’m not putting my life at risk with your sidestream smoke, though.’
‘Don’t nag, Ma. I’m not really smoking. I just need a cigarette every now and then. Anyway, I can’t do it outside. It’s raining.’
‘You’re still not smoking in here.’
‘Mum, let it drop!’
‘No. And while we’re at it, I’ll give you a week to get out or I’ll hire someone to throw you and your things into the street. I’ve asked you several times to find a place of your own to live and you haven’t. This smoking is the final straw.’
‘You wouldn’t do that.’ He sounded amused.
‘Oh, wouldn’t I?’
‘Well, I can’t afford a place of my own.’
‘You could if you stopped smoking and cut back on the boozing.’ She plucked the cigarette out of his mouth and threw it into the fireplace.
‘I’d only just lit that.’ He jumped up and thumped her, sending her crashing into the corner of the fireplace surround.
It was the second time he’d hit her. They both froze in shock.
‘You drive me to it,’ he muttered. ‘You and your nagging.’
She rubbed her arm where it’d hit the fireplace. ‘Your father never laid a finger on me in all our years together. You’re definitely not staying here, Donny.’
‘You needed me to help with the lifting when Dad was dying of cancer, didn’t you? And I came for you then. You need me now as well. I pay half the rent and I keep you safe. It’s getting a bit rough round here, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
She had, but wasn’t going to admit it. ‘I’ll be safe from everyone but you then.’ She took out a tissue and blew her nose to prevent herself from crying. Her own son had hit her! Twice now. How could he do that?
‘I’m not leaving, Ma, but I’m sorry I thumped you. It won’t happen again.’ And before she could say anything else, he grabbed his jacket and left the house.
He’d promised that the first time he hit her, too. She didn’t believe it any more because he’d just done it again, hadn’t he? Sitting down abruptly because she felt wobbly, she let the tears fall. It was going to come to a serious confrontation if she wanted to get rid of him, because why should he move out voluntarily when things were so comfortable here? The trouble was, she couldn’t bear to live in a pigsty so she kept on clearing up after him. That meant he had a built-in housekeeper and cook.
Last month she’d caught him raiding her purse. He’d always been lazy and sometimes lied to her but she’d never expected that. He was going from bad to worse. She had to stop it.
She’d threatened to ask for the council’s help in getting rid of him. She wasn’t even sure that they would help but knew the thought of them butting in would upset Donny. And it had. That was why he’d thumped her the first time.
He’d been very careful since, not a sign of violence, but she’d been shaken to the core by him daring to hit her, so had gone online and read about family members beating others up. She’d found out it didn’t just happen to wives, but to parents too, especially elderly ones.
She was only fifty-one, and no way was she elderly, but she was a small, thin woman and he was over six foot tall and burly. Apparently grown-up children, usually the sons, sometimes started thumping their parents. Only occasionally at first and they apologised, but gradually they got a taste for it.
It seemed to her now that Donny was showing the classic start-up symptoms and she hadn’t been doing a good job of standing up for herself. After she’d told him to leave last time, she should have followed through. Dare she do something about getting him out this time?
Well, she had to or her life would be miserable.
She looked at the town’s website and found out that there was a phone number for women in trouble. She studied herself in the mirror and pulled up her sleeve. There was a nasty bruise on her arm now, where she’d hit the fireplace.
She was definitely in trouble.
She got out the cheap smartphone she’d treated herself to last year and took a selfie of her upper body, showing the bruise.
Then she stared in the mirror and nodded, promising herself that things were going to change. She had a chance for a new life now and she intended to seize it with both hands. Giving up her job was the biggest risk she’d ever taken.
When she considered his reaction to a little thing like her throwing away his cigarette, she worried about another thing she’d be risking: him wrecking the house. But perhaps she could do something to protect the things she cared about.
She paced up and down, trying to work out how best to do this. In the end, she decided to write to the council and plead for their help in getting rid of Donny, who had become abusive.
First things first. Before she left for the interview she had to make sure the possessions she cared about were safe. There weren’t many: her embroideries, her family photos, a few special books. The only real jewellery she owned was her wedding ring and that never left her finger. Well, she couldn’t get it off now, could she? Her knuckles were a bit swollen. Those hands had worked hard.
She looked round and grimaced. The furniture was too shabby to care about. You could pick up better stuff at the tip in the recycling section. It’d be a bit of a nuisance if Donny damaged things, but she didn’t care about it.
What else needed adding to her mental list of preparations?
Oh, yes. Get the car ready for the long drive from Newcastle to Wiltshire. She’d already replied to the email from Mrs Denning, agreeing to attend the interview. And if she didn’t get the job, she’d have a go at something else.
She should have made some changes after her husband died. She’d stayed on in the house out of habit. Time to change her habits. More than time.
‘Just get on with it, girl!’ she muttered. ‘Do what you have to!’
By the time her son got home from work the following evening, Ginger intended to have everything ready so that she could leave as soon as he went to work the next morning. It was a good thing she didn’t have to go into the café today because she was going to be very busy indeed.
She started by going next door and having a chat with Kerry, who was a good neighbour and long-time friend – as much as anyone could be a friend who had six married children and goodness knew how many grandchildren forever needing her help.
Reluctantly she showed Kerry the bruise.
Her friend gave her a big hug. ‘You don’t deserve that, love. Didn’t I tell you to get him out?’ She had one son, divorced, who kept getting into trouble, so she knew what she was talking about. She’d been telling Ginger for a while that some folk didn’t want to be helped and you just had to give up on them.
‘Yes, and you were right. I should have got him out.’
‘Anyway, if anyone asks me, I’ll tell them what he’s like and about those bruises, by heck I will. I’ve no time for your Donny these days. He’s gone to the bad like my George did.’
Ginger couldn’t argue with that. But this was her only son. Kerry had other sons – and daughters. She wanted the old Donny back, the child she’d loved so much.
The next thing Ginger did was pick up some empty cardboard boxes from the back of the supermarket and load them in her car boot. On the way home, she hired a small storage locker from a place that had opened last year a few streets away in a disused factory.
It took her longer than she’d expected to pack all the things she cared about, but at last it was done and she took them to her storage locker.
The cupboards and drawers in her bedroom were almost empty now, and so were those in the sideboard downstairs, but Donny wouldn’t notice that. Apart from his pigsty of a bedroom, he rarely got beyond the kettle, the TV and the fridge.
She felt exhausted, as if she’d been running ever since she got up, but she wasn’t going to stop till she’d done everything on her list.
She went to a garage where she wasn’t known to fill her car and check the oil and tyres. Donny used the nearby garage and the owner was one of her son’s drinking pals. She didn’t want him gossiping about seeing her getting the car ready for a trip.
She was now all set for a quick departure in the morning. It was a long way from Tyneside to the south-west, but she’d always enjoyed driving and she thought her old car would manage to get to Wiltshire all right because she looked after it, like she looked after all her possessions, and had it serviced regularly.
The only thing she hadn’t done by teatime was write to the council and ask for help.
When Donny came home from work she was pretending to be watching the TV news. She didn’t even look round till he said her name a second time. ‘Sorry? What did you say?’
‘I asked what’s for tea.’
‘There’s nothing much in the fridge because I wasn’t at work today. I ate up the odds and ends. You’ll have to buy yourself a takeaway.’
To her astonishment he took a step towards her, scowling, fists clenched. ‘You should have gone shopping, then.’
Was he going to hit her again? What on earth had got into him lately? Was it the boozing?
She stood up and shouted back. ‘If you hit me again, Donald Brunham, I’ll go straight to the police and lay a complaint. I won’t put up with any more violence.’ She rolled up her sleeve and brandished the bruise at him. ‘I’ll show them this, for a start. You did that to me yesterday.’
The bruise seemed to surprise him. She watched him frown at it as he considered what to do.
After a moment or two, he said, ‘Some mother you are, not having my tea ready! No wonder you make me angry.’
‘Some son you are, not paying your own way. Anyway, I give you one week to get out, then I’ll take action to have you evicted.’
‘You wouldn’t dare.’ He slammed out of the house.
How had her son turned so sexist?
She sat down at the kitchen table and after a moment or two she poured herself a glass of her special occasions amontillado sherry. She only ever had a single glass but it always cheered her up because it tasted so nice.
This time she drank a toast to her interview going well. When she’d finished sipping the sherry delicately, relishing the taste, she washed out the glass and hid the sherry in her bedroom.
‘You’ll have to do it, Ginger! Stop procrastinating!’ She switched on her laptop and wrote an email to the address on the council website. No getting out of it. Donny had nearly hit her again tonight.
She explained that her son was an unwanted lodger whom she’d put up in an emergency, but who now refused to leave. He’d started hitting her and she was frightened to stay here while he was around. She attached the photo of the bruise, feeling ashamed to have to do that.
She paused to think about it. Where had she gone wrong as a mother?
With a sigh she went back to the email, telling them she was going away for a few weeks because she was frightened of her son thumping her again. She would be grateful if they could get Donny out of her house. If they didn’t, she was afraid he’d wreck the place in one of his violent tempers.
She finished by saying that she didn’t dare come back till someone from the council emailed to let her know her son Donald Brunham was out of the house and it was safe for her to return.
Her neighbour Kerry Smithers at No. 17 could verify everything she’d said about the situation.
If they needed any more information, they had only to ask.
That should make them act, surely? They might not care about her but she’d read in the paper that they were clamping down on people who damaged council property, trying to keep maintenance and repair costs down.
After signing it she reread it and was about to send it off when she realised she’d signed it ‘Ginger’. Oops! She deleted it quickly and typed in ‘Jean’ instead. She’d never liked her real name and had been known as ‘Ginger’ ever since she started school because of her red hair, but this was an official document and she was Jean Brunham in council records.
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.’
‘Wow!’ Emil stared round the communications room, which covered one half of the roof space, with a rather low ceiling at one side. There were big sheets of transparent plastic sheeting over the surfaces now. ‘I didn’t realise it was so well equipped.’
‘Yes, and every single piece of paper is as they left it. Incredible, isn’t it? I feel honoured to be able to keep it safe. The heritage people have done a preliminary assessment and are now working out how best to display everything so that the public can see but not touch.’
‘Yes, they’ve been in touch with Dad about it. May I take photos, Angus?’
‘As long as you promise not to give copies to anyone except your father.’
‘I promise.’
When Emil had finished, Angus opened a concealed door in the wood panelling that covered all the walls and revealed a narrow staircase that was hardly more than a ladder. ‘Watch how you go.’
They backed down it into the tunnels.
At the bottom Angus said, ‘Turn right. The other direction is open now underground at the place where the lorry caused the cave-in, but that passage leads to an electricity substation and that’s got a metal grille across it now. I have no right to go into it and someone at the council, probably Madam Wasp, has the key. There isn’t anything to see in the tunnels, really, but you’ll get a feel for the cellar and passages, at least.’
He switched on some lights. ‘Those who built it had to use torches but we put in lights using the electricity supply from Number 6, which is the largest house in Saffron Lane.’
Emil followed him along the tunnel, shivering in the chill air. The ceiling and walls of the passage were shored up with sheets of corrugated iron, held in place by rough wooden posts and joists. As Angus had said, there was nothing to see except a locked door at the other end. But he felt a tension in the air, as if something might happen at any moment.
It was probably his imagination, but it made him glance over his shoulder a couple of times.
Angus grinned. ‘Makes me feel like that too, sometimes. I won’t take you into Number 6. We’d only tramp in dirt and, actually, the door is so well hidden I don’t want to disturb it, because we’re going to have artists living there.’
As they started back, he said, ‘I wouldn’t put it past the Brody woman to be prowling up and down the road and peering through the windows of all the empty houses. I’ll check afterwards that she really has left the street, then perhaps you’d like to come up to the big house for a cuppa before you set off back to Leeds?’
Emil smiled. ‘Actually, I’m staying in town from now on. Dad has a regional branch office here. Not everyone likes to buy their insurance online and there are claims to deal with, too. I’ll take a rain check on the cuppa, if you don’t mind. I’m supposed to be meeting the guy who’s been running the branch for a briefing. He’s taking early retirement and I’m going to pick his brains before he goes, because there isn’t a detail he doesn’t understand about the insurance industry.’
‘Do you have somewhere to stay? We aren’t well supplied with hotels and B & Bs here, I’m afraid.’
‘I shall be moving into the flat above the office till I see how things stand. It’s been empty for years but apparently all the domestic equipment in it is still functional.’
‘Welcome to Sexton Bassett, then. We’ll maybe get together another time.’
‘I’d like that. I’ve been working frenetically in Australia and am intending to slow down and smell the roses now I’m back, as they say. I’m really looking forward to exploring Wiltshire. It’s such a beautiful county. You’ll have to tell me the best places to go. I wish it’d warm up a bit, though. I’m still getting used to a cooler climate.’
‘Well, it’ll be summer soon.’
Emil chuckled. ‘The UK summer is quite similar to the West Australian winter.’
Angus locked up Number 1 and waved the visitor goodbye. Ms Brody’s small red car might no longer be parked in Saffron Lane, but he could see it in the street outside the entrance to Dennings. She wasn’t sitting in it and there was no sign of her anywhere that he could see. What the hell was the devious idiot up to now? He hoped she wasn’t going to keep trespassing. He had better things to do than keep an eye out for her.
He went to knock on Stacy’s door. He’d better warn her and Elise about Charlene Brody’s attempts to interfere and reassure them that she had no authority over Saffron Lane, whatever she said.
When Angus got back to the big house, Nell was working on preparations for the interviews to select artists for Numbers 4 and 5. She’d printed out the emailed photos of the various artists’ work and was studying one so intently it took her a minute to realise her husband was back.
She put the papers down. ‘How did it go? Did you find a burglar casing the joint?’
He joined her at the table and explained about Emil Kinnaird, then indicated the scatter of folders and paperwork. ‘Got any favourites among this new lot of applicants for residencies?’
‘These are my favourites and they all look quite good. What I’m trying to figure out is how commercial their work is. Look at this embroidery. It’s gorgeous, a modern take on seventeenth-century raised stump work. If I have any favourite, it’s this artist.’
He let out a low whistle. ‘It’s lovely, got a rather quirky charm to it.’
‘Yes, but how commercial can such work be? We have to be practical about who we allow to set up here. It must take ages to do a piece of embroidery as exquisite as this, so how many will she have available to sell? Even if she has some stored away, I doubt her output will be enough for her to make a living from after those are sold, and therefore not enough to give us a good profit.’
‘I see what you mean.’
‘We’re not setting up an artistic charity, but trying to find a way to turn that row of houses into an asset. An art gallery and café will complement visits to the big house on open day quite nicely, too.’
‘If you don’t think this work is commercial, why did you ask her to come for an interview?’
‘Because it’s gorgeous. Her scenes are so lively. Some of the figures and set-ups make me smile every time I look at them. I wanted her to at least have the satisfaction of having gained an interview. And besides—’ She broke off and frowned.
‘Besides what?’ he prompted.
‘I’m not sure about this guy who does woodcarvings. He sounds, well, a bit arrogant. Maybe I’m reading that into his emails unfairly, but his work isn’t charming; it seems distinctly spiteful to me. His carvings aren’t enjoying or celebrating human and animal frailties; they’re caricatures twisting a nasty screw into them. And yet he’s a brilliant carver. So I can’t make up my mind.’
After a thoughtful pause, she added, ‘What I really wanted was to find a potter, and I even found a small kiln that hires out firing time. Pottery would give us lots of smaller pieces to sell, don’t you think? But I’m still not sure. It might just add complications, and none of the potters who’ve applied so far seem special enough. I’ve got one coming and have asked him to bring a couple of ideas for pieces that aren’t just tourist trash.’
She grinned at him. ‘I didn’t call it “trash” of course, but I think he’ll get the idea.’
‘Well, you’ll not only have me but Elise at the interviews. She’s a shrewd old bird. I doubt anyone will be able to pull the wool over her eyes.’
Nell nodded and stretched. ‘Let’s adjourn to the sitting room and open a bottle of wine.’
‘I’m going to be working on a project tonight. It came in just before Stacy rang. So no alcohol for me, I’m afraid. But I’ll pour you a glass, if you like.’
‘No, don’t bother. It’s much nicer to share a drink. Do you have to start work straight away?’
‘I’ve time for a coffee.’
‘You’re on.’
They walked into the kitchen arm in arm, chatted for a few minutes, then he vanished into his office. His IT troubleshooting was in demand and he was charging much more for his time these days, thanks to her business input. But she missed him when they didn’t sleep together.
Chapter Three
Emil found the company’s branch office in Sexton Bassett deserted, with a ‘Closed’ sign on the door. He knocked on it good and hard, but there was no answer. This surprised him, because it was only mid afternoon and the office should be open, and anyway, his visit was expected.
He used his master key to get inside and was horrified to find George Turrell lying unconscious on the floor in the back room, sprawled next to a table with an untouched meal set out on it. The poor man must have been lying there for a while as the food looked well dried out.
Emil knelt down quickly beside him, and to his relief found a faint, erratic pulse. There were no signs of violence so he had to assume it was a heart attack or stroke.
He got out his phone and dialled the emergency services, not sure what to do to help George in the meantime. The woman he spoke to said an ambulance would be there in a few minutes.
It was only three minutes before Emil heard the siren, but it felt much longer. He let the paramedics in and they quickly got George on oxygen and whisked him away.
He immediately got in touch with his father, asking him to get hold of George’s family. Then he made sure everything was locked up and followed the paramedics’ directions to the local hospital. He was annoyed to find he had to pay to park there, even with an emergency to follow up. Still fuming at this, he hurried inside the building.
His phone vibrated and he found a message from his father. George’s daughter is on her way to the hospital. She’ll be there in about ten minutes.
He sent a quick text asking for her name, but received no reply so could only tell the nurse at A & E reception that Mr Turrell’s daughter was on the way.
Exactly eleven minutes passed before a woman ran into the A & E, paused for a moment to get her bearings, then rushed across to the desk. ‘My father’s been brought in – George Turrell.’
Emil went across to join her. ‘I’m Emil Kinnaird. I’m the one who found George.’
‘Mmm.’ All her attention was on the receptionist and she didn’t even turn to look at Emil, let alone give him her name.
‘Your father’s undergoing some tests at the moment, Ms Turrell. Could I please get some details while we’re waiting to hear from the doctors?’
‘Can I just see him?’
‘Not till the doctors say it’s all right. They’re still working on him.’
The woman, who was about Emil’s own age, sagged against the counter, answering the questions and glancing occasionally towards the doors beyond the reception desk, through which people whose clothing identified them as working there were coming and going.
