Jump Cut E-Book

Helen Grant

• Herausgeber: Fledgling Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 487

Beschreibung

The Simulacrum is the most famous lost movie in film history – would you tell someone your darkest secrets, just to lay hands on a copy? 104-year-old Mary Arden is the last surviving cast member of a notorious lost film. Holed up in Garthside, an Art Deco mansion reputed to be haunted, she has always refused interviews. Now Mary has agreed to talk to film enthusiast Theda Garrick. In return she demands all the salacious details of Theda's tragic past. Only the hint of a truly stupendous discovery stops Theda walking out. But Mary's prying questions are not the only thing Theda has to fear. The spirit of The Simulacrum walks Garthside by night, and it will turn an old tragedy into a new nightmare...

Leseprobe

Contents

Chapter One – September

Chapter Two – April

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two – Six Months Later

Acknowledgements

For Iona

Chapter One – September

I am sitting on the bed in my mourning dress, looking at the wall and listening to the clock ticking. The wall is painted pale green and at the edge of my line of vision there is the gilded edge of a mirror. I could look at the mirror if I turned my head, but I don’t. I keep sitting there, not moving.

The weather is fitful today. The sun comes out briefly and the air is full of dust motes. I watch them moving on sluggish, invisible tides.

There is a distant creak as someone steps onto the landing, and then the brittle sound of heels on the polished floorboards. They approach the door. A moment’s silence, then a tentative knock.

“Theda?”

I say nothing.

“Theda?” The voice is a little louder this time. “We have to go soon.” A pause. “Can I come in?”

She doesn’t wait for me to say ‘yes’. I hear the rattle as the doorknob turns and then she comes into the bedroom.

“You’re ready,” she says, with artificial brightness. She’s relieved, I suppose, that I’m not lying on the floor in my dressing gown, weeping.

I don’t move my head, don’t turn at the sound of her voice, so she crosses the room and stands right in front of me. The pale green wall is blocked from sight by a black crepe bodice.

“Darling,” she says. “We have to go.”

She leans forward, and perfectly-coiffed blonde waves dip into my view as she looks at what I am holding in my hands: my wedding photo, in its silver frame, me and Max standing outside the church door.

It was April, but we were lucky with the weather. We had sunshine all day, and the photograph has a crystal clarity. I am wearing a gauzy dress with a lace overlay and carrying a bouquet of peonies and roses. My dark hair is swept up into a studiedly careless style, with tendrils curling into my neck. And Max... Max is wearing the traditional morning suit but nobody would even look at that, because he’s so handsome. He has brilliantly blue eyes and high cheekbones and golden hair, and because he is smiling you can see that his teeth are beautiful too, white and even. He is just marvellously good-looking.

Was marvellously good-looking.

Max is dead.

It hits me again, the way it keeps on hitting me, it will never stop hitting me.

Max is dead.

Celia puts her perfectly-manicured fingers over mine and prises them gently away from the photo frame. I tighten my grip for a moment, then let her do it.

What does it matter? I think.

She says, “The car is waiting. We shouldn’t be late.”

She’s right, of course. Celia is holding it together wonderfully, considering she is Max’s sister, and this must be hideous for her. Perhaps organising things and shepherding people about is what helps her do that. Supporting the bereaved wife, who has fallen to pieces completely.

She puts the wedding photo carefully on the dressing-table, and then she puts a hand under my elbow, encouraging me to get up.

The bed – our marital bed – creaks as I stand up. I look down at myself. My black silk dress is crumpled and it is a little loose around the waist and bodice. Even though Max has been dead less than a fortnight, I haven’t been eating much. I am also wearing horrible black opaque tights and low-heeled black patent shoes.

I look like a crow, I think.

I let Celia lead me out of the room. I stand on the landing like a black-clad doll while she closes the bedroom door. The click is resonant in the silence. Then she takes me downstairs. She walks next to me, holding my arm, as if she thinks I might fall otherwise, or perhaps throw myself down the whole flight.

There are several vehicles waiting outside on the gravel. One of them is a hearse. I glance at that, and then look away. Max is in there. My husband is in there. I can’t remember what they dressed him in. Probably someone asked me what he would have wanted. Everything’s a blur.

Celia’s husband Simon opens the door of the second car for me, and I climb inside. The seats are leather, and cold, and the interior has a sterile smell of air freshener. There is a driver in a sober suit. It is a big car, with enough room for three in the back, so Simon sits on one side of me and Celia sits on the other.

“Theda,” says Simon, kindly. He is a big man, with a large square face, and his expression is so sympathetic that I have to look down, at my hands clasped together in my black silk lap.

Trees slide past the car windows, and then the open road, and eventually we come to the church. It is the very same church where Max and I were married, a little over three years ago. It was spring then, and now it is autumn, so the trees and bushes in the churchyard and the climbing plants on the walls have an overgrown, tired look.

The car stops, and Celia puts her hand over mine. We wait for the undertaker to open the back of the hearse, and for the pallbearers to take up the coffin. Then we follow it into the church. As we approach the doorway with its ancient and weathered stone arch, I remember standing here as a bride. My parents were dead by then, so Max’s father escorted me down the aisle. He looked like a very much older version of Max, grey and a little lined but still good-looking, with a full head of hair. I remember thinking that that was what Max would look like when he became old – but he never did become old.

We step into the church. Some, but not all, of the same faces are there, but they look drawn now, the colour leached out of them by the black clothes everyone is wearing. It’s strange, I think, how the church looks the same but so different. It is full of flowers again, but all of them are white. At the wedding, we had shades of pink and white.

Then I look down, because the sight of so many sympathetic faces is more than I can bear, and ahead of me is the oak casket carrying all the hopes and dreams I once had. Instead, I look at the shiny black toes of my shoes moving across the ancient flagstones.

The pallbearers put the coffin onto the catafalque and we slide into a pew near the front. I don’t really follow anything after that. Someone else does the eulogy. Nobody expects the widow to do that – to stumble through the dead person’s virtues, the key events of their life, while trying not to break down completely. Nobody wants to watch her standing there crying, trying to get herself under control when really life has gone right off the rails and nothing is alright at all. Once or twice, the eulogist manages to raise a laugh. I think people are relieved, or perhaps it makes them feel as though Max is still with us, the fact that something about him can still make us chuckle. Celia and Simon don’t join in, though; around me there is a capsule of silent grief.

Afterwards, we file out, and the priest clasps both of my hands in his, trying to offer some comfort, as though promises of the hereafter can be the same as having a warm and breathing person lying next to you at night. There are other faces, too, here and at the wake, which is at home, offering condolences or practical help or clumsily-expressed hopes for future happiness. I endure them all for as long as I can. Then I excuse myself and go upstairs to my bedroom, leaving Celia and Simon in charge. I lock the door, take off my shiny black shoes and lie down on the bed in my black silk dress, curling into a foetal position.

Max is dead, I say to myself, daring it not to be true. Max is dead.

Chapter Two – April

Seven months is not long enough to get over it. It is long enough to know that there is no pregnancy – nothing of Max for me to carry with me into the future. It is long enough, too, to start thinking about what might fill my life for a while, and help me to look forwards, instead of back at the past. Something to fix my mind on – to keep the bad thoughts out.

I have survived the winter: the long dark days, the silent emptiness of Christmas. Celia and Simon tried to make me go to them, but I wouldn’t. I lied, and said I was spending it with old friends of mine, people they didn’t know. I think they were relieved.

But now, there is spring in the air, and I am driving north, with no makeup on, and my hair tied back in a sensible ponytail. I am driving Max’s car, which is a Mercedes, and bigger and faster than mine. There are two suitcases in the boot, and a box of books and papers on the back seat. My phone is on the passenger seat, but I don’t really expect it to ring. Who would call me? I’ve pushed everyone away.

Around the tangled knot which is Birmingham, the traffic is very heavy and I make slow progress. After Manchester it begins to become lighter, and by the time I pass Carlisle, there are not many other cars on the road. The sun is low in the sky.

A little further on lies the border. There is a huge blue and white sign reading Welcome to Scotland, and underneath: Fàilte gu Alba. I stare at it for a moment and then it is gone, behind me. I am in Scotland. The motorway curves slightly to the west here and I am driving towards the sunset. Max and I never went to Scotland together. We went to France and Italy and Switzerland, but never Scotland. Perhaps that’s why it feels like a good place to – forget? No; not to forget. Never to forget. To start over.

The satnav has been silent for a long time, but as I approach Glasgow it starts to issue orders in its toneless voice. That dead intonation is strange, like having someone there with me but not having them there at the same time. I’m used to that; I carry Max round with me, wherever I go. I follow the instructions, indicating carefully and observing the speed limit. The big car purrs along, comfortably.

Eventually I turn onto another motorway, heading north again. I stop at a services near Stirling, and have a cup of tea and a sandwich I don’t fancy very much. Then I fill up the tank, and while I’m standing at the pump I can feel the bite in the air; it’s quite a few degrees colder here than in the south of England.

Not long after leaving the services, I pass an illuminated castle on a rocky outcrop. It stands out because there are no lights along the road here. Then it, too, is behind me, and I’m barrelling into the darkness. Driving away from my old life, into the unknown.

I would miss my turn altogether in the dark, if the satnav didn’t announce it. I pass through a tiny village, without so much as a shop or a pub, and then I’m onto a long stretch of A-road. It snakes along under canopies of trees, eerily underlit by the headlights, and over stone-walled bridges with black water sparkling beneath. Once, something with glittering eyes scurries away from the lights, into the undergrowth.

On the edge of a small town I turn down an even smaller road, one without a white line down it and with overhanging bushes on either side. It occurs to me that I could stop and check one of the maps in the glove box. But the satnav can’t be wrong; it keeps telling me confidently where to go. I keep driving.

Eventually I take a right, down a turning that is more a track than a road; in places there is grass growing in the middle. I brake, gazing ahead into the dark, but after a few moments the satnav urges me onwards. There are one or two faint lights up ahead, so the road does go somewhere.

As I get nearer to the lights, I see that I am approaching a small stone-built house. Briefly I wonder whether I am going to end up on someone’s drive, apologising to some furious person while I attempt to turn a large Mercedes in a small space. But then I see that the road simply passes close by it, and then dips sharply away.

The car’s suspension bounces on a simply enormous pothole and for a moment I’m so busy worrying about the back axles that I don’t brake. Then I see glossy black water, and I do.

The road just – stops. Ahead of me is a river, and the road just leads down into it and vanishes.

I put the handbrake on, open the door and get out. My eyes are not deceiving me. The road really does lead into a river. The beams of the headlights just about show me the opposite bank, where the road apparently resumes: I can see tyre tracks in the mud.

I feel the first spots of rain on my face and decide to get back into the car. The satnav is still telling me plaintively to proceed. I look behind me, and apart from the faint lights of that house, everything is a dark abyss. Not ideal for reversing. Then I look forward again and spot a sign almost overgrown with foliage; it stands out because it is made of white metal, with black lettering. It says: Ford.

So I am supposed to drive through the river? I’m still doubtful about that, so I get out of the car again, and take another look, shivering.

It doesn’t seem to be that deep. In places, you can see little patches of stones sticking up out of the water. I pick up a stick, and go right down to the edge, where I poke it in. Only a few inches. I look back at the Mercedes. I don’t think the water would come any higher than halfway up the wheels. I bite my lip and go back to the car.

I slide behind the wheel, and I am still pondering the question when I see lights in the rear-view mirror. Another car is coming down the lane. That decides me; if someone else is going to cross the ford, so can I. Also, I’m in their way. I put the car in gear and touch the accelerator gently.

The car bounces a little again as the ground levels out, and then I drive slowly into the water. The wash from the wheels makes a rushing sound and I have to admit there’s something exciting about doing this. It feels wrong, and sort of daring.

A flicker in the rear-view mirror catches my eye and I see that the car behind hasn’t followed me. It’s turned in at the house.

Oh–

There’s a gentle bump as the Mercedes goes over something on the riverbed, and for a moment my attention swaps to that. Rain splatters on the windscreen, so I put the wipers on. I look ahead and my confidence falters a little bit.

Just before the far bank, the water looks a little deeper and it is moving much more quickly. In the dark and the rain it looks black and viscous, almost syrupy. Still, I can see the tyre marks emerging from the river, so I know it is possible to cross.

I press the accelerator a little harder, thinking that I can take the deeper part at a rush – momentum will carry me through. The car leaps forward and for a couple of seconds I think I’m going to make it; I see myself scrambling up the further bank with an interesting story to tell people afterwards.

And then I feel the current hit the car, and in spite of its size and weight, the nose slips to the left slightly. I rev, trying to urge it up the bank. For a moment the front wheels throw up mud, and then the Mercedes settles back into the river.

I sit there for a moment, dumbfounded. It’s not possible to go forward now; I can see that. I won’t get up the bank. After a couple of seconds of blind panic, it occurs to me to put the car in reverse and try to back out of the water. So I try that, but it won’t shift. I’m stuck.

I am not an expert on cars, but I’m pretty sure getting water in the engine is a disaster, so I turn it off. Instantly, the sound of rain pelting the car is audible, even over the sound of the running water. If it keeps raining, as it shows every sign of doing, the water level is going to rise. I think that would be a very bad thing.

I wonder what the hell I am going to do.

Chapter Three

I have enough sense not to open the driver’s door, which is on the upriver side. Even while the water is relatively low, I suspect it would flow right into the car. I take the keys out of the ignition and climb over to the passenger side. I put my mobile phone in my pocket. Then I open the door and get out.

Instantly I am up to my ankles in water so cold it nearly takes my breath away. I stifle a shriek.

I don’t think the car would move, not yet, not even with this current, but I dare not hang around on the downstream side, just in case it does. I don’t want to think about what will happen if I fall over, either. So I wade very slowly and carefully back across the river, towards the lights of the house. The water really isn’t deep – so far, anyway – but the stones are slippery in places. I have my arms out for balance but my hands are curled into fists. A gust of wind tugs a lock of hair loose and instantly it is plastered to the side of my face.

I stagger onto the gritty track with a great sense of relief, and glance back at the car. This feels like a fairly big catastrophe, but I don’t cry or anything. I cried enough after Max died. Instead, I wipe sopping strands of hair out of my eyes, pull my sodden jacket close around me, and march towards the house.

While I have been floundering about in the river, the owner of the house has parked a tatty-looking Range Rover outside it and seemingly gone inside. The door is shut and all the curtains are closed, but there is a light on over the lintel, shedding a little circle of comfort.

I look at the house for a moment. It would be a long walk to anywhere else, so I hope they won’t mind me knocking. So I squelch up the path to the door, and knock very firmly.

I’m just beginning to think there won’t be any reply when the door opens. It’s a man, tall and wavy-haired, clad in ancient corduroys and a woolly jumper. The jumper has a hole in the elbow, I see. He is holding a sandwich in one hand and I see him swallowing before he attempts to speak.

“I’m really sorry,” I say, shivering. “I’m–”

“–stuck in the ford,” he finishes. “Did you not see me flashing you not to go in?”

“No,” I say. I’m sure my teeth are about to start chattering. “I thought you were coming down after me and wanted me to get a move on.”

He shakes his head. “You’d get across it in a tractor, and in good weather, a four-by-four, but not in a thing like that.”

“The satnav–”

“It’s always the satnav.” He puts the sandwich down unceremoniously on a battered chair in the hallway and reaches for a coat from a row of pegs. “Do you want me to haul it out?”

I gape at him. I had been hoping to stand somewhere warm and dry while I called the rescue service. I didn’t expect anyone to pull the car out themselves.

“Can you?”

“Aye, I can. We should get on with it, though. The rain’s set in, and it won’t get any easier.” He is shrugging the coat on; it’s a long waxed thing, the sort of coat you only ever see in country magazines. Then he looks at me, takes another coat from the pegs and holds it out. “I think you’ll need this.”

The coat is also waxed and probably of an even greater antiquity than the one he is wearing. Additionally, it smells of dog, or possibly horse. I put it on anyway. Then I give one last yearning look at the warm dry interior of the house before he shuts the door and we trudge off to look at the car.

He snorts a bit at the sight of it, wedged at a slight angle, with the water foaming at the upriver side. Then he stumps off into the dark and comes back a few minutes later driving a tractor. I watch him manoeuvring it from the safety of the bank and I am quite relieved when he goes to take the handbrake off the Mercedes so he can pull it out of the water; I am a little afraid of that running water and my feet are already like blocks of ice.

Then I wince as Max’s car, his pride and joy, is hauled backwards across the stones. Even above the sound of the river and the hiss of the rain I can hear the scrapes and grinding noises.

I stand back as the tractor passes, dragging it along behind. Eventually it stands on level ground, in front of the house, looking very sorry for itself. The man gets down from the tractor, unhitches the two vehicles, then takes the tractor off somewhere around the back of the building. He does all this with a kind of concise practicality, as though he hauls cars out of the ford every day of the week.

Perhaps he does, I think.

I’m still standing there with rain dripping off my hood when he comes back.

“Come in,” he says briefly, tilting his head towards the house, so I follow him, reasoning that if he were an axe murderer or something, he wouldn’t have rescued my car. Besides, I’m so cold I think I’ll die if I don’t warm up a bit.

I’m taking off the malodorous coat when I hear a scratching noise. The man looks at me.

“You mind dogs?”

I shake my head. He opens a door and a black and white collie runs out, all lolling tongue and inquisitive eyes.

“Jess,” he says, though I’m not sure whether he’s addressing me or the dog.

I follow man and dog into a stone-flagged kitchen where the heat seems to come from an antiquated range. There is a worn pine table which is covered with dirty dishes at one end, and books at the other. A lot of the books seem to be old ones, with cloth or leather bindings. I can’t pick out the names on the spines.

I sit on a hard kitchen chair, as close to the range as I dare.

“Thank you,” I say, realising I haven’t said this yet. “I don’t know what I would have done.”

“You’re not the first,” he says. “Easier to get it out of the river now, before the rain, than tomorrow.”

“All the same.”

I rub my hands together, trying to get life back into my fingers. Then I look up and he’s holding out a very generous glass of whisky.

I shake my head. “I’m driving.”

“Not tonight, you’re not,” he says. “Better get it checked over first thing tomorrow. Assuming it even starts.”

He puts the whisky down right in front of me.

“Where are you headed? Must be somewhere local, if you’ve come down here. I’ll drive you.”

“I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that. I’ll get a taxi.”

“No taxis out here at this time of night, unless you’ve pre-booked.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “It’s not London.”

“I’m not from London,” I say.

He shrugs. “Like I said, I’ll drive you. Where do you want to go?”

I hesitate. “It’s not a town. It’s an estate. It’s called Garthside.”

A pause.

“Ah,” he says.

“Do you know it?”

“I know of it. I haven’t been in there, though. Don’t know anyone who has.” He thinks about it, and then he grins. The grin is genuinely warm, and it makes me look down at the glass that has miraculously found its way into my hands. “It’s good to have an excuse to see it.”

“They say it was pretty amazing in its day,” I offer. “The house, I mean. But I’ve only seen old photos of it.”

“I’ve heard that too. Hard to imagine it’s still in good repair. You should drink that, you know. It’s an eighteen-year-old malt. It’s a sin to waste it.”

I take a sip. “It’s good.”

“Aye, it is. So what brings you to Garthside?”

I pause for a moment before saying, “Mary Arden.”

“Ah, so you’re a doctor – a specialist?”

“No, a writer.”

“I see,” he says, and then, “So she’s agreed to see you, has she?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Of course I am,” I say, slightly nettled. “I wouldn’t have come otherwise.”

“She doesn’t see many folk,” he says, mildly. There’s a silence, and just before it gets awkward, he says, “It’ll take a little while to get to Garthside by road, but as the crow flies, we’re pretty much neighbours.”

“That’s...” I can’t think of an adjective, so my voice tails off.

“You’re staying a day or two?”

“Longer,” I say. “I’m hoping to write a book.”

“And you’re staying at Garthside?”

“Mm-hmm.”

He’s leaning against the table, appraising me, and I sort of wish he wouldn’t.

Then he says, “I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Angus Fraser.”

So I have to give my name too. “Theda Blake. I mean – Garrick. Theda Garrick.”

His eyebrows go up. “Recently married?”

This is really too nosy of him, so it kind of serves him right when I say, “Recently widowed.” Then I’m sorry, because his expression shows that he can see he’s dropped a huge clanger.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. I mean, you weren’t to know.” I look away. “I don’t expect you to understand, but I can’t bear people calling me Mrs Blake. It makes me...”

He waits for me to finish the sentence. When I don’t, he says, “I’m very sorry.”

The dog, who has been eyeing me during the conversation, chooses this moment to sidle up to me, so I occupy myself with her, not looking at Angus. After a while, I say, “This trip was a chance to get away. And I know I’ve been incredibly lucky to get Mary Arden to agree to see me.”

“You have,” he says.

“It’s something else to think about,” I say, and then, “That’s a bit sad, isn’t it?” I’m aiming for a light tone, but it’s hard to stop my voice breaking.

“No, it isn’t. It’s sensible.” After a moment, he says, “That’s an unusual name – Theda.”

It’s a relief to be on safe ground. “It’s after Theda Bara. You know, the silent era film actor.”

He shakes his head.

“My dad was a huge film fan. Theda Bara was a star in the ’20s. I don’t think she ever did any movies with sound.” I manage a smile. “I guess I should be thankful he didn’t call me Joan or Norma or something.”

“Lassie,” he suggests, absolutely straight-faced and I can’t help myself; I give a great shout of laughter. It’s as well I’ve finished the whisky, or I’d have spat it all over the kitchen.

When I’ve finished laughing, he nods at the kitchen clock, which is just as battered-looking as everything else.

“It’s late. Will they still want you arriving at this time of night?”

I nod, serious again. “I told them I was driving up from the south of England. I said I’d stay in a hotel somewhere, but they said not to worry. She, Mary Arden I mean, has staff round the clock. They said they’d let me in whenever it was.”

He thinks about that. “Well,” he says at last, “If there’s any misunderstanding, I can drive you back to the town. There’s a big hotel there.”

“I don’t think there will be.”

“Alright. Do you want anything out of your car?”

“If it’s no trouble, I’ve got two suitcases and a box of papers. I’d rather take those now than have to think how to get them, if the car has to go in.”

“It’s no trouble,” he says. “Jess – bed.” The dog walks off obediently to a basket in the corner, and settles down.

I put down the empty glass and stand up. There is a little pool under my chair and my feet are still cold, but I feel a lot better than I did before.

We go outside.

Chapter Four

The back of the Range Rover swallows my two cases and the box of books and papers, and I climb in beside Angus. Like the coat, the vehicle has a smell of dog, distinct though not offensive. There’s a dog cage at the back, but I strongly suspect Jess rides shotgun on shorter journeys.

We set off, back up the lane, and I wonder how I ever thought this was really the right route. Rain is pattering down and through the sweep of the windscreen wipers I can pick out the overhanging trees. The Range Rover bumps over ruts and potholes, so that the trees seem to dance in the beams of the headlights.

We don’t talk much. I am a little preoccupied; it has occurred to me that I am not going to make a very professional first impression, turning up soaked to the skin and very possibly smelling of whisky. Angus seems to be lost in his own thoughts. It seems to me also that you probably have to concentrate, driving along these roads. They are narrow, and there are some very sharp bends.

I glance over at him, just the once. He’s very angular, with a rather long face and sharp cheekbones. Not as good-looking as Max. Nobody is as good-looking as Max was. I wonder if I will ever stop comparing people. A cloud settles over me and I think silently about Max for the rest of the way.

The turning up to Garthside is so abrupt that I would have missed it if I’d been by myself. It turns back on itself, too, so that it is very hard to see, if approached from this direction. It simply looks like a dark hollow between two stretches of hedge, though as the Range Rover turns in, I see two lichenous gateposts mostly hidden under wet foliage. A few metres further on there is a sign reading: GARTHSIDE HOUSE. STRICTLY PRIVATE PROPERTY.

I remember reading once that the trespass laws are different in Scotland. People can’t stop you going where you like, as long as you don’t do any damage. But I guess they can put up signs, to discourage you.

“I’d have missed this,” I say. “If I’d been driving myself.”

“It doesn’t advertise itself,” says Angus. He pauses. “There are some strange tales about the place around here.”

I raise my eyebrows, but he doesn’t elaborate.

The drive up to Garthside House seems to take a long time, and I wonder how big this estate actually is. We pass what I think are great rhododendron bushes, the leaves shiny with rain. Then at last I glimpse light up ahead and a minute or so after that, we see it, as the drive widens out into a large, gravelled area.

Angus brakes, and both of us stare at it.

“Wow,” I manage to say.

Imagine a big house in Scotland and you think of some huge, grim stone castle, hundreds of years old. This isn’t like that at all. It’s sprawling, far wider than it is high, and it’s in the very distinctive style known as Art Deco, popular in the 1920s and ’30s. It has large windows divided by slender frames into small panes, a flat roof and bold geometric features covered in white stucco, so that the effect is that of a vast wedding cake. It has been carefully lit to accentuate these features.

I have seen old photographs of Garthside House before, but none of them really did it justice. It’s stunning, magnificent in fact, and probably completely unsuitable for the Scottish climate.

We sit and look at it for a minute or two, long enough for an irregularity to snag my eye. Most of the lights are yellow, but far away on the upper left-hand side of the building, one window briefly flashes a bluish colour.

Someone is watching TV, I think. They must have one hell of a big flat screen.

The Range Rover begins to roll forward again. I, who seem to feel so little since Max died, experience a twinge of nervousness. A lot depends on first impressions, and I’m turning up late and dishevelled. There’s more to it than that, though. The house is magnificent but there is the sense of something being a little off, a little out of kilter – and not just because the place seems so unexpected in its setting. I look up at that white stucco façade and I have an unaccountable urge to stay in the car with Angus. I swallow. It’s no use feeling like that. He’s helped me enough already. He doesn’t owe me anything. I don’t really know him.

The car stops outside the front door, and pushing down my reluctance I open the door and get out. I go to get my suitcases from the boot, but Angus is there before me.

“You really don’t have to,” I tell him, but he shrugs. I guess he’s getting a look at the place, anyway – seeing the reality behind that cryptic reference to strange tales. I take the box of books and papers, folding the cardboard flaps over to try to stop them getting rained on.

I ring the bell, juggling awkwardly with the box. Then I wait. Nothing. The rain patters down on my head and shoulders as I wonder whether the doorbell even functions; the place looks so antique that perhaps it doesn’t. Feeling self-conscious, I press the bell again. The moments stretch out – perhaps it has even been minutes now – and still nobody opens up. Eventually I raise my hand to knock instead, and an instant before my fist strikes the door, it opens.

It’s not Mary Arden herself standing there – obviously not. It’s a woman of about fifty, perhaps a well-preserved sixty, in a neat dark suit. Her dark hair is sleeked back into a neat chignon and her grey eyes are framed by heavy spectacles. It’s not an actual uniform she’s wearing, but everything about her screams staff. I don’t think she’s a relative; I bet she’s the housekeeper.

She looks at me and I can see a question forming in her eyes, so I say, “Hello, I’m Theda Garrick. I’m very sorry I’m so late.”

“Ms Garrick,” she says. “Of course. Welcome.” She pronounces it Mz, carefully avoiding either Miss or Mrs, although she can’t know any of my circumstances.

“Do come in,” she says, and then, to Angus, “You may leave those bags just inside the door.”

I think she thinks he is a taxi driver and I wonder how to explain that he isn’t, but Angus just puts the suitcases down where she indicated.

“Bye,” he says to me and starts off back towards the Range Rover. Then he thinks of something and turns back. “If the garage want to know where the car is, tell them Garthside Ford.”

“Thank you,” I say into the wind and rain. I feel I ought to say more, but he is gone, so I turn back to the woman in the doorway.

“I’m afraid I’m rather wet,” I tell her apologetically. “I followed the satnav and got stuck in the ford. I’ll probably drip all over the floor.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” she says. “Get yourself inside and let’s shut this door. I’m Mrs Harris, the housekeeper.”

So I was right about that. I thought she was a bit terse with Angus, but now she seems very friendly.

“I’ll get someone to take your bags up,” she says. “The box, too, if you’d like to leave it on this table. And I’ll get you a towel. Would you like some tea?”

“Oh, yes please.”

She opens a set of double doors and leads me into a sitting-room where there is a fire burning, although it is April. I am very grateful to see it, although I suspect I shall actually steam if I stand in front of it. Then she goes off to see to the tea.

I am left alone in the room. It is in keeping with the Art Deco exterior; the fireplace looks original to me. The walls are painted a very pale green, the colour they call Eau de Nil, I think, and there are chairs and a sofa in a slightly darker shade, the sides made of some dark polished wood. The door I came in by is mirrored by a door at the other end, and on each side of both there is a beautifully stylised peacock design. If it were not for me, damp and sniffing and very definitely a twenty-first century woman, the room could be right out of 1930. It is undoubtedly gorgeous and it also gives me a faint sense of unreality – of something artificially preserved.

There is a delicate scent on the air: something with top notes of orange or peach, and a warm oriental base. It is faint but distinctive – an older woman’s perfume. I didn’t smell it on Mrs Harris, so it must belong to someone else, who has either left the room recently or spends a lot of time here.

I step closer to the fire and warm my hands and feet, shivering a little.

I am here, I think. Garthside House.

Chapter Five

The tea arrives, extraordinarily, in a tea-set that seems to match the vintage of the house and even the colour of the room. The delicate green cup has a triangular silvered handle. There is a green plate, too, with shortbread petticoat tails tasting faintly of peppermint. I help myself rather liberally to those, since it is a long time since I last ate, and I have two cups of tea.

Mrs Harris tactfully leaves me alone while I am doing this, but then she comes back to take me up to my room.

“Mrs Harris,” I say, “This is a little embarrassing but... my car is still over by the ford. I don’t even know if it will start again.”

“Don’t worry, Ms Garrick. I’ll have someone pick it up and take it to the garage for you. Garthside Ford, wasn’t it?”

I nod. “I’m so sorry to be a nuisance–”

“That’s perfectly alright, Ms Garrick,” she says, firmly. Seemingly the matter is closed; she indicates for me to follow her. As I do, I think how strange it must be to live like this all the time, having people to sort out all the difficult, inconvenient things for you. I also hope that she won’t send it anywhere too expensive, but I don’t dare ask.

We go through the hallway again and I notice that in the intervening time my two cases and the box have disappeared. Whoever moved them did it very quietly; I didn’t hear a thing.

I follow her up a sweeping staircase that starts at one side of the hall and curves round. The balustrade has a beautiful but archaic design of stylised flowers – lilies, I think. I run my hand along the highly polished rail at the top as we go up. In truth, I am not really comfortable with Mrs Harris. The whole idea of someone having staff is too alien, and I’m not quite sure how to behave. Does Mrs Harris expect me to chat with her, or would that just be annoying, or gauche? It seems rude to say nothing, though.

“Have you worked here a long time?” I ask her.

“Oh, more than twenty years,” she says, turning to me with a smile.

“Wow.” That seems like a safe response. There are loads of other things I’d love to ask her, but can’t, like Have you got a life of your own? And what can you possibly do here all day, with just one old lady to look after?

“Miss Arden is an excellent employer,” she says.

“That’s good.”

“Yes, it is.”

“The house is really beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she says, as though it’s hers. Perhaps, to a certain extent, it is. Mary Arden can’t possibly get around it very much.

At the top of the stairs, we turn right.

“I’ve put you in one of the bedrooms along here,” says Mrs Harris. “That way, you won’t be disturbed by anyone else going about the house during the night.” She glances at me. “Miss Arden has staff in attendance twenty-four hours a day.”

I nod. I guess if you are a hundred and four and incredibly rich, you have whatever you like.

Almost at the far end of the landing, she opens a door and stands back to let me go in first. The room is stunning in an old-fashioned way, like the rest of the house. It is pink and pearl coloured, with a lot of walnut, and looks like the sort of place a film star would sleep in, which shouldn’t be a surprise, really. The bed is enormous, and has a big padded headboard in the shape of a shell. I stare at it, imagining myself lying there like a child in an adult-sized bed, small and frail-looking.

Mrs Harris shows me the ensuite, which is cream and green. Even the soap has a kind of Art Deco look to it. What was charming at the beginning is starting to weird me out a little bit: it’s like I’ve actually stepped back in time. I’m quite glad when I see that she is preparing to go. I’m tired; I guess I’ll be more appreciative tomorrow.

“I’ll brief you on Miss Arden’s schedule in the morning,” she says. “I expect you’d like to retire for the evening. When would you like breakfast?”

“At eight?” I hazard.

“Perfect,” she says. She pauses for a moment in the doorway. “I hope you will have a successful stay here, Ms Garrick.”

“Thank you,” I say, and watch her close the door.

A successful stay, I think. I wonder what she meant by that. What’s an unsuccessful stay – one where Mary Arden has you thrown out? But perhaps she didn’t mean anything at all. She has a formal way of speaking; perhaps that’s all it was.

My suitcases are both here, and the box of papers is sitting on a little walnut escritoire. I go over and look into the box. Thankfully very little rain seems to have got in. I wipe a few drops off the front of the topmost book, but that’s about all.

While I’m standing there with the book in my hands, I listen. I am pretty sure Mrs Harris has gone downstairs, but I’d like to be sure. Silence. All the same, I put the book down, go over to the door, and very quietly turn the key in the lock. Staff are probably a nice thing to have if you can afford them, but I don’t fancy anyone walking in while I’m in the bath or something.

After that, I take my shoes off, because I am leaving wet marks on the pink carpet, even after drying myself in front of the fire. I start a bath running and while the water is thundering into the big cream-coloured tub I unpack my stuff. In spite of the age of the house and its decor, everything seems to be very clean. I pull out drawers in the walnut units and the interiors are carefully lined with paper and scented with sachets. The big wardrobe has plenty of hangers. The only thing the staff have missed is the top of the wardrobe; I climb onto a chair in my stockinged feet to see whether my cases would fit up there, and find there is a thick layer of dust on it. I climb down, brushing my hands together to get it off my fingers.

The bath is full. I turn the taps and the sudden silence is striking. The water ripples lazily and is still. I unpack my washbag in front of the big mirror. It’s an extraordinary thing, that mirror: it has a fan of glass panels at either side of the main one, so when I move, the gesture is repeated multiple times. I try not to examine myself too carefully in its gleaming depths; the rain and wind have done a lot of damage and I wasn’t looking particularly glamorous to start with, since I didn’t even put make up on this morning. There didn’t seem any point, as there often seems little point in such gestures these days. It would all have rubbed off before I even got to Carlisle, anyway. Tomorrow morning I will have to make an extra effort – and not just for Mrs Harris, either. I can’t imagine meeting someone like Mary Arden, someone who once epitomised glamour, looking like a drowned rat.

There are little cupboards either side of the sink, so I think I will stow the washbag in one of those. So I open the right hand one, and there, right at the back of the shelf, is a little pot of face cream. I take it out, thinking that perhaps this is a helpful offering for guests. But it’s been opened, and used. The marks of someone else’s fingertips are visible in the cream. They must have had other guests, I think. Or at any rate, one guest.

I remember Angus saying ‘She doesn’t see many folk.’ Evidently, though, she has seen someone.

I screw the lid back on, and put it back on the shelf. I suppose it doesn’t matter who else Mary Arden has seen – as long as she talks to me.

Then I climb into the big bath, intending to have a long welcome soak.

Alas, it’s not as glorious as I was hoping. The water is hot enough, but the tub is so long that I can barely touch the end of it with outstretched toes; if I lie down there is a definite risk of slipping under the water altogether. So I sit bolt upright while I wash, and then I sit for a little while with my arms around my knees, and think that it is possible to have too much luxury; if I fell asleep in a bath this big I’d probably drown.

Chapter Six

The next morning, I am downstairs at five to eight, my hair tamed into a neat up-do and a respectable but not overt amount of makeup on. I’ve chosen a quiet but smartly casual outfit of skirt, shirt and cardigan because I have no idea who I am going to meet down there, and I want to present a professional front. I can’t imagine Mary Arden will be breakfasting at this hour, but you never know. Older people often seem to get up pretty early.

In fact, I am the only one. Breakfast is served in a bright room with windows that run almost up to the ceiling. It’s so light and cheerful that the sense of something a little awry fades away; it’s more like being in a very well lit museum.

The woman who is setting out the things asks me what I’d like, and since it’s on offer, I agree to the cooked breakfast. I notice she has a southern English accent, like mine. So they don’t recruit locally – or perhaps she is a recent incomer. The breakfast, when it arrives, is enormous, and includes some slabs of square sausage and potato scones. I work my way through this, looking around me with interest. There is a huge decorative panel on the wall; it looks a bit like a stylised fountain. I wonder how they keep everything like this, so old-fashioned but so new-looking. Some things must have been modernised over the years – there was plenty of hot water last night, after all, and I doubt you’d get that from a 1930s heating system. And there is the flat screen TV at the other end of the house.

I spear a piece of potato scone with my fork. A cooked breakfast, just for me. A room fit for a Hollywood film star. Someone to sort out the problem with my car. I feel as though I should pinch myself to check I’m awake. But they suggested staying here when we were exchanging letters. I could have stayed in a hotel – it would have been expensive, if I was here a long time, but I could have done it. Or a rented apartment. But they offered me this. It’s amazingly generous. I guess Mary Arden has decided it is finally time to tell her story before it is too late and that is why she has offered to let me stay here, for as long as it takes.

I have cleaned the plate and am just finishing my second cup of tea when Mrs Harris appears, looking immaculate again. It’s impossible to imagine her doing human things like sleeping or sitting in the bath.

She says, “Good morning, Ms Garrick. I hope you slept well?”

“Like a log.” This is true – I was so worn out from the driving and the dip in the ford and the whisky that I doubt a bomb falling could have woken me.

“Excellent. If you’re ready, we will go into the morning room and go through Miss Arden’s schedule and some other details.”

I follow her through into the room where I had the tea yesterday, the one with the beautiful peacock designs on the walls. We perch on two chairs, both sitting very upright: I because I am nervous, and she because she doesn’t do anything as unprofessional as lounging.

“First of all, Ms Garrick, to set your mind at rest, your car has been collected from Garthside Ford and is at the garage. Is there anything you needed out of it? No?” She waves off my thanks. “That’s perfectly alright. Now, regarding Miss Arden’s schedule...”

This is the bit I’ve been waiting for.

“Given her age, Miss Arden can generally give you about an hour a day. Longer than that would be exhausting for her, and probably unproductive for you.”

An hour. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Mary Arden is really ancient, after all. It will take a long, long time to gather enough information for a book from an hour a day, though. Plus that leaves twenty-three hours a day of kicking my heels at Garthside House... Well – it’s not as though I have anything to get back for. Getting away from the silent home that Max and I shared was what I needed.

“The best time of day would be between three and four. Miss Arden is usually at her most rested and alert in the afternoons.”

She’s looking at me over the top of her spectacles.

“That’s absolutely fine,” I say. “Perfect.”

“There are various books, papers and memorabilia that she is happy to share with you, so you may wish to spend some of your time on those.”

“That would be amazing.”

“When your car has been repaired, you may like to explore the surrounding area. In the meantime, the grounds are at your disposal, and they are very extensive. Please, feel free to go wherever you like.” She pauses. “As regards Garthside House, you are welcome to use this room and the other rooms on the ground floor. All the rooms on the east side of the house – that is where your bedroom is – are also open. We only ask that you respect Miss Arden’s privacy and stay entirely out of the upper west wing.” Her gaze holds mine, unwavering.

“Of course,” I say.

“All being well, Miss Arden will meet you this afternoon at three, in this room. You may record the interviews if you wish, but on audio only. Miss Arden does not wish to be filmed, nor has she given her permission for it. If you wish to have photographs to accompany the interviews, Miss Arden will be happy to supply them and to grant permission for their use at no cost. Is there anything you would like to ask me?”

I hesitate, because there are about a thousand things, but I am not sure whether I dare ask some of them.

“I should call her Miss Arden, right?”

“Yes.”

“And is there anything else I should know? I mean...” I stop short, because I am not sure what I do mean, just that it’s a little odd discussing the preparations for meeting someone when I don’t even know what she looks like now.

“Well, Miss Arden’s eyesight and hearing are good considering her age,” says Mrs Harris. “She is short-sighted, so don’t sit too far away from her. Her hearing is better on the left hand side, so it might be as well to sit to the left. But I will ensure the chairs are arranged in that way. And although she is a hundred and four, and tires easily, you should not assume that she will miss anything. She is as sharp as a tack.”

I guess she sees an expression of trepidation cross my face, because all of a sudden she unbends.

“Don’t worry, Ms Garrick. I am sure that Miss Arden will like you very, very much. Just be yourself.”

She gives me a genuinely sunny smile and I find myself smiling back. I think soon I might suggest she calls me Theda. I could be living here for a while, after all, and it will be weird if everyone calls me Ms Garrick all the time.

“I must get on,” she says after that. “And I expect you’d like to look around. I suggest lunch at one?”

I agree, and we both get up. It’s on the way out of the morning room that I think to enquire, tentatively, about WiFi.

“Ah,” she says. “There is no WiFi. Miss Arden doesn’t approve of it.”

Perhaps I should have anticipated that – all the contact we had was by actual letter. It’s still a surprise. But never mind; I have the data on my phone. So I thank Mrs Harris and we part in the hallway. It is a quarter past nine, and until one o’clock, my time is my own.

Chapter Seven

I could go upstairs and start looking over my notes. I could do that, but I don’t. I spent the whole of yesterday cooped up in the car and now I want some fresh air. So I go upstairs to my room and fetch my coat, because it’s April in Scotland and I’ll probably freeze to death otherwise.

As I head back towards the head of the stairs, the double doors to the west wing are directly ahead of me. They are opaque doors, decorated with a variation of the lily design on the balustrade, so you can’t see what’s on the other side. Heavy and ornate, they remind me of the doors to a church – or a mausoleum.