Читать книгу House of Echoes - Barbara Erskine - Страница 17

‘Presents, food, blankets, hot-water bottles. I’m like a Red Cross relief van!’ Lyn had driven into the courtyard next morning, her old blue Mini groaning under the weight of luggage and parcels. ‘Mum and Dad are coming back on Wednesday, but I thought I’d give you a hand.’ She smiled shyly at David. ‘I’m going to be Tom’s nanny so Joss can write world-shaking best sellers!’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ David grinned. He had only met Joss’s younger sister on a couple of occasions, and had thought her hard and, he had to admit, a little boring. For sisters the two had had little in common. Now, of course, he knew why. They weren’t sisters at all.

It was eleven before he managed to cajole Joss away from the house on the pretext of hunting up some of the names from the Bible in the church. They started in front of Sarah Percival. ‘I noticed her because the memorial was so ornate. There must be older ones,’ she whispered. She wandered away from him down the aisle. ‘Here we are, Mary Sarah Bennet died in 1920. It just says of Belheddon Hall. No mention of her disappearing husband.’

‘Perhaps she didn’t want him buried with her.’ David was staring absently up into the shadows near the north door. ‘There’s a lovely little brass here. To the memory of Katherine –’ he screwed up his eyes, ‘it’s been polished so often I can’t make out the second name. We need more light.’ He stepped closer, reaching up the wall to trace the letters with his finger. ‘She died in 14- something.’

Katherine

In the silence of the old church Joss flinched as though she had been hit. She was standing on the chancel steps, staring at a small plaque on the wall behind the lectern. At David’s words she turned, to see him stroking his fingers lightly over the small, highly polished brass. ‘Don’t touch it, David – ‘she cried out before she had time to think.

He stepped back guiltily. ‘Why on earth not? It’s not like walking on them –’

‘Did you hear?’ She pressed her fingers against her temples.

‘Hear what?’ He stepped away from the pulpit and came to stand next to her. ‘Joss? What is it?’

‘Katherine,’ she whispered.

He had been riding – riding through the summer heat, trying to reach her …

‘That was me, Joss. I read out her name. Look. Up there on the wall. A little brass. There are some dead flowers on the shelf in front of it.’

Riding – riding – the messenger had taken two days to reach him – already it might be too late –

In the cut glass bowl the water was green and slimy. Joss stared down at it. ‘We must renew the flowers. Poor things, they’ve been dead so long. Nobody cares –’

Foam flew from his horse’s mouth, flecking his mantle with white …

‘There aren’t any flowers at this time of year unless you go to a shop,’ David commented. He wandered away towards the choir stalls once more. ‘Did you bring a notebook? Let’s copy some of these names down.’

Joss had picked up the vase. She stared at it vacantly. ‘There are always flowers in the country, if you know where to look,’ she said slowly. ‘I’ll bring some over later.’

He glanced at her over his shoulder. She seemed strangely preoccupied. ‘Shouldn’t you leave it to the flower ladies?’ he said after a moment.

She shrugged. ‘They don’t seem to have bothered. No one has noticed. The vase was hidden there, in the shadows. Poor Katherine –’

Katherine!

Furiously he bent lower over the animal’s neck, urging it even faster, conscious of the thud of hooves on the sunbaked ground, knowing in some reasoning part of himself that his best mount would be lamed for life if he kept up the pace any longer.

‘David!’

The pounding in Joss’s skull was like the thud of a horse’s hooves, on and on and on, one two three, one two three, over the hard, unrelenting ground. Everything was spinning …

‘Joss?’ As she collapsed onto the narrow oak pew David was beside her. ‘Joss? What is it?’ He took her hand and rubbed it. It was ice cold. ‘Joss, you’re white as a sheet! Can you stand? Come on, let’s take you home.’

Behind him, far behind, a scattering of men, the messenger amongst them, tried to keep up with him; soon they would have fallen out of sight.

In the silent bedroom Joss lay on the bed. Sitting beside her was their new doctor, Simon Fraser, summoned by Luke. His hand was cool and firm as he held her wrist, his eyes on his watch. At last he put her hand down. He had already listened to her chest and pressed her stomach experimentally. ‘Mrs Grant,’ he looked up at last, his eyes a pale clear blue beneath his gold-rimmed glasses. ‘When did you last have a period?’

Joss sat up, relieved to find her head had stopped spinning. She opened her mouth to answer and then hesitated. ‘What with the move and everything, I’ve sort of lost track –’ Her smile faded. ‘You don’t mean –’

He nodded. ‘My guess is you are about three months pregnant.’ He tucked his stethoscope into his case and clicked the locks shut. ‘Let’s get you down to the hospital for a scan and we’ll find out just how far along you are.’ He stood up and smiled down at her. ‘Was it planned?’

Katherine

It was there again, the sound in her head. She strained to hear the words, but they were too far away.

Katherine: my love; wait for me …

‘Mrs Grant? Joss?’ Simon Fraser was staring at her intently. ‘Are you all right?’

Joss focused on him, frowning.

‘I asked if the baby was planned,’ he repeated patiently.

She shrugged. ‘No. Yes. I suppose so. We wanted another to keep Tom company. Perhaps not quite so soon. There’s so much to do –’ It had gone. The voice had faded.

‘Well, you are not going to be the one doing it.’ He lifted his case. ‘I’m going to be stern, Mrs Grant. That turn you had this morning is probably quite normal – hormones leaping about and rearranging themselves – but I’ve seen too many women wear themselves out in the early months of pregnancy and then regret it later. Just take it easy. The house, the boxes, the unpacking – none of it will go away by itself, but at the same time, none of it is so urgent you need to risk yourself or your baby. Understood?’ He grinned, a sudden boyish smile which lit his face. ‘I’ve always wanted to come and see this house – it’s so beautiful – but I don’t want to be coming up here at all hours because the new lady squire is overtaxing herself. Right?’

Joss sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. ‘It sounds to me as though you’ve been got at. Luke must have talked to you before you came up here, doctor.’

He laughed. ‘Maybe. Maybe not, but I’m a fairly good judge of human nature.’

Luke’s hug, in the kitchen later, swept her off her feet. ‘Clever, clever darling! Let’s have some champagne! David, are you prepared to brave the cellar? There is some there.’

‘Luke –’ Protesting, Joss subsided into a chair. ‘I shouldn’t have champagne. Besides, shouldn’t we wait until I’ve had the proper tests?’ She still felt a little odd – disorientated, as though she had woken too suddenly from a dream.

‘No chance.’ Luke was glowing with excitement. ‘We’ll have another bottle then. Besides there’s no doubt is there? He said he could feel it! I’m sure, and you are too, aren’t you –’ he paused for a moment on his way to collect four glasses and looked at her shrewdly. ‘A woman always knows.’

Raising her fingers to her forehead Joss pressed distractedly against her brow. ‘I don’t know. I suppose there have been signs.’ Queasiness in the mornings for one. In the rush to get Tom up and dressed she hadn’t taken much notice. Her tiredness she had put down to the fact that she was doing much too much. ‘So nanny –’ she looked at Lyn, ‘you’ll have another charge soon, it seems.’

Lyn’s eyes were sparkling. ‘You’ll have to pay me more to look after two.’

‘Oh great. Thanks!’

‘At least writing your book will keep you sitting still. You’ve got no excuse not to start, now,’ Luke said firmly. He put the glasses down on the table and then dropped a kiss on the top of her head. ‘I’ll go and help David find a bottle.’

David was standing in the cellar in front of the wine racks as Luke walked slowly down the steps. ‘It’s bloody cold down here. This is all vintage, you know. And some of it is still in really good nick.’ He glanced at Luke and lowered his voice. ‘If you need money you could do worse than sell some of this. There are some very valuable wines here. Look at this! Haut-Brion ’49 – and look Chateau d’Yquem!’

‘What sort of money are we talking about?’ Luke reached for a bottle and extracted it carefully from the rack. ‘This is –’ he squinted ‘– 1948.’

‘Don’t shake it whatever you do! That’s about 350 quids’ worth you’ve got in your hand. You are looking at thousands, Luke. Ten. Twenty. Maybe more.’

‘You know, I did wonder. That’s why I wanted you to have a look at them.’

David nodded. ‘I can give you the name of someone at the wine auction house at Sotheby’s who would come and value it and catalogue it. It would be a tragedy in a way to get rid of it, but I know you’re strapped for cash, and with another kid on the way, you could do worse than raise some like this. Besides, you’re just as happy with plonk, aren’t you, you ignoramus!’ He chuckled.

‘I think I’d better put this back –’ Luke glanced at the bottle in his hand.

‘You’d better! Come on. Let’s find some champagne for the baby.’ David selected a bottle from the rack and studied the label, ‘Pommery Brut 1945. Not bad!’

‘Just twenty or thirty quid a bottle, I suppose?’ Luke groaned.

‘More like fifty! It’s a strange life you lead here, isn’t it.’ David shook his head slowly. ‘All the trappings of grandeur, yet a bit short of cash.’

‘A bit!’ Luke grinned. He was not going to let himself think about Barry and H & G’s money. ‘We were planning to live off the land here. Literally. The money I can make from doing up cars is peanuts. It’s a mug’s game – so slow – but at least it will bring in enough hopefully for electricity bills and community charge, that sort of thing. Joss would never hear of selling anything out of the house – she is so obsessed with the history of it all, but wine is not quite the same, is it? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind about that. It could make the difference between hell and a hard place for us, David.’ He cradled the bottle in his arms. ‘Tell me something. Do you think Joss really could make any money out of writing?’

David grimaced. ‘She can write. She has a wonderful imagination. I’ve told her that I’ve taken the liberty of showing some of her stuff to a publisher friend of mine. He particularly liked one of her short stories. He’s keen to see more, and he wouldn’t say that unless he meant it. But beyond that it’s in the lap of the gods.’ He gave a sudden shiver. ‘Come on, old chap. Let’s get out of here. It’s so bloody cold. A hot meal is what we all need, I think!’

It wasn’t until quite a bit later that Joss managed to go back to the church alone. She had in her hand a small bunch of holly mixed with red dead nettle, and winter jasmine and shiny green sprigs of ivy covered in flowers.

The church was almost dark when she found the key in its hiding place and pushed open the heavy door to make her way up the dim nave. The vase was clean and full of fresh water as she stood it gently on the shelf in front of the little brass. ‘There you are, Katherine,’ she whispered. ‘New flowers for Christmas. Katherine?’ She paused, almost expecting there to be a response, a repeat of the strange reverberation in her head, but there was none. The church was silent. With a wry smile she turned away.

The kitchen was empty. For a moment she stood in front of the stove, warming her hands. The others were all out, all occupied. She should be unpacking boxes or packing presents; there was no time to stand and do nothing. On the other hand now would be the perfect time, alone and undisturbed, to turn once more to the box of letters in her mother’s study. And the doctor did tell her to rest …

The great hall was already taking on the look of Christmas. Luke and David had brought in the seven foot tree they had cut in the copse behind the lake that morning and the whole room smelled of the fresh spicy boughs. It was standing near the window, firmly wedged into a huge urn filled with earth. Lyn had found the boxes of decorations, and they stood on the floor near the tree. They had promised Tom that he could help decorate the tree after his supper and before he went to bed. She smiled. The little boy’s face as the tree was dragged in had been a sight to behold.

She had filled a huge silver bowl with holly and ivy and yellow jasmine and it stood in the centre of the table, a blaze of colour in the dark of the room.

Katherine

Joss frowned. There was a strange electric tingle in the air, a crackle of static as though a storm were about to break. It was there again: the echo at the back of her head – the voice she could not quite hear.

As he thundered into the courtyard the house lay quiet under the blazing sun. His horse’s breath was whistling in its throat as he dragged it to a halt. There was no sign of servants, even the dogs were silent.

Puzzled, Joss shook her head. She was staring hard at the bowl of flowers. The silver, still dull where her quick rub with a duster had failed to remove the years of tarnish gleamed softly in the dull light from the lamp near the table. As she watched a yellow petal from the jasmine fell onto the gleaming black oak.

Throwing himself from the saddle he left the sweating trembling horse and ran inside. The great hall, dim after the sunlight, was equally empty. In five strides he was across it and on the stairs which led up to her solar.

The smell of resin from the newly cut fir tree was overpowering. Joss could feel the pain tightening in a band around her forehead.

‘Katherine!’ His voice was hoarse with dust and fear. ‘Katherine!’

‘Joss!’ The cry echoed through the open doorway. ‘Joss, where are you?’

Luke was carrying a great bunch of mistletoe. ‘Joss. Come here. Look what I’ve found!’ In quick strides he crossed the room to her side and held the huge pale green silvery bouquet above her head. ‘A kiss, my love. Now!’ His eyes narrowed with laughter. ‘Come on, before we decide where to put it!’

Katherine!

Joss stared at Luke sightlessly, her mind focused inwards, trying to catch the sounds as they came, seemingly from endless distances away.

‘Joss?’ Luke stared at her. He lowered the mistletoe. ‘Joss? What’s wrong?’ His voice grew sharp. ‘Joss, can you hear me?’

Katherine!

It was growing fainter; muffled; distant.

‘Joss!’

She smiled suddenly, reaching out to touch the mistletoe berries. They were cold and waxy from the old orchard where lichen-covered apple trees tangled with greengage and plum.

In the end they put one bunch in the kitchen and one in the great hall hanging from the gallery. Before he left to return home David gave Joss a lingering kiss under the bunch in the kitchen. ‘If I find out any more about the house I’ll stick it in the post. And in the mean time, you get a couple of chapters under your belt to send to my friend Bob Cassie. I have a good feeling about your writing.’

‘And so do I, Joss.’ After he had gone Luke and Joss were discussing it in the study. ‘It makes perfect sense. Lyn is here to help you with Tom and the baby when it’s born. You can write, we all know that. And we do need the money.’ He didn’t dare count on the wine yet.

‘I know.’

‘Have you got any ideas?’ He glanced at her sideways.

She laughed. ‘You know I have, you idiot! And you know I’ve already made some notes on how to expand that story. I’m going to take it back to when my hero is a boy living in a house a bit like this one. He’s a page, learning to be a gentleman, and then he gets mixed up in the wars between the white rose and the red.’

‘Great stuff.’ Luke dropped a kiss on her head. ‘Perhaps they’ll televise it and make us millionaires!’

Laughing she pushed him away. ‘It’s got to be written and published first, so why don’t you go out and play cars while I make a start right now.’

She had found an empty notebook of her mother’s in one of the drawers. Sitting down at the desk she opened it at the first page and picked up a felt-tipped pen. The rest of the story was there, hovering at the edge of her mind. She could see her hero so clearly as a boy. He would be about fourteen at the beginning of the novel. He was tall, with sandy hair and a spattering of freckles across his nose. He wore a velvet cap with a jaunty feather and he worked for the lord of Belheddon.

She stared out of the window. She could see a robin sitting on the bare branches of the climbing rose outside. It seemed to be staring in, its bright eyes black and intent. He was called Richard, her hero, and the daughter of the house, the heroine of her short story, his age exactly, was called Anne.

Georgie!

She shook her head slightly. The robin had hopped onto the window sill. It was pecking at something in the soft moss which grew around the stone of the mullions.

Georgie!

The voice was calling in the distance. The robin heard it. She saw it stand suddenly still then with a bob of its head it turned and flew off. Joss’s fingers tightened round her pen. Richard was of course in love with Anne, even at the beginning, but it was a sweet innocent adolescent love that only later was to be dragged into adventure and war as opposing sides brought tension and dissent and murder to the house.

She wrote tentatively, sketching in the first scene, twice glancing at the window, and once at the door as she thought she heard the scuffle of feet. In the fireplace the logs shifted and spat companionably, once filling the room with sweet-smelling smoke as a gust of wind outside blew back down the chimney.

Georgie! Where are you?

The voice this time was exasperated. It was right outside the door. Joss stood up, her heart pounding, as she went to pull it open. The hallway outside was empty, the cellar door closed and locked.

Shutting the study door she leaned with her back against it, biting her lip. It was her imagination, of course. Nothing more. Stupid. Idiot. The silence of the empty house was getting to her. Wearily she pushed herself away from the door and went back to the desk.

On her notebook lay a rose.

She stared at it in astonishment. ‘Luke?’ She glanced round the room, puzzled. ‘Luke, where are you?’

A log fell with a crackle in the fire basket and a shower of sparks illuminated the soot-stained brickwork of the chimney.

‘Luke, where are you, you idiot?’ She picked up the flower and held it to her nose. The white petals were ice cold and without scent. She shivered and laid it down. ‘Luke?’ Her voice was sharper. ‘I know you’re there.’ She strode across to the window and pulled the curtain away from the wall. There was no sign of him.

‘Luke!’ She ran towards the door and tugged it open. ‘Luke, where are you?’

There was no answering shout.

‘Luke!’ The scent of resinous pine was stronger than ever as she ran towards the kitchen.

Luke was standing over the sink scrubbing his hands. ‘Hello. I wondered where you were –’ He broke off as she threw her arms around his neck. Reaching for the towel on the draining board he dried his hands and then gently he pushed her away. ‘Joss? What is it? What’s happened?’

‘Nothing.’ She clung to him again. ‘I’m being neurotic and hormonal. It’s allowed, remember?’

‘You’re not going to let me forget, love.’ He guided her to the table and pushed her into the armchair at the end of it. ‘Now. Tell me.’

‘The rose. You put a rose on my desk …’ her voice trailed away. ‘You did, didn’t you.’

Luke frowned, puzzled. With a quick glance at her he sat down next to her. ‘I’ve been out working on the car, Joss. It seemed a good idea before it got too dark. The lights in the coach house are not good and it’s freezing out there. Lyn is still out with Tom. They went to collect some fir cones but they’ll be back at any moment, unless they came past me without my noticing. Now what’s this about a rose?’

‘It appeared on my desk.’

‘And that frightened you? You cuckoo, David must have left it.’

‘I suppose so.’ She sniffed sheepishly. ‘I thought I heard –’ she broke off. She had been about to say, ‘Someone calling Georgie,’ but she stopped herself in time. If she had she was going mad. It was her imagination, working overtime in a shadowy too-silent house.

‘Where is this rose? Let’s fetch it in.’ Luke suddenly stood up. ‘Come on, then I’ll help you put the supper on for the infant prodigy. He’s going to refuse to go to bed until he’s had his money’s worth of the Christmas tree this evening.’

The fire in the study had died to ashes. Stooping Luke threw on a couple more logs as Joss walked over to the desk. Her pen lay on the page, a long dash of ink witness to the haste with which she had thrown it down. Next to it lay a dried rose bud, the petals curled and brown, thin and crackly as paper. She picked it up and stared at it. ‘It was fresh – cold.’ She touched it with the tip of her finger. The petals felt like tissue; a crisped curled margin of the leaf crumbling to nothing as she touched it.

Luke glanced at her. ‘Imagination, old thing. I expect it fell out of one of those pigeon holes. You said they were full of your mother’s rubbish.’ Gently he took the rose out of her hand. Walking over to the fire he tossed it into the flames and in a fraction of a second it had blazed up and disappeared.