Читать книгу House of Echoes - Barbara Erskine - Страница 9

It was very late before she drove at last into the narrow mews in Kensington and backed the car into an impossibly small space near the house. Wearily she climbed out and reached for her front door keys.

The light was still on in the kitchen at the back. Luke was sitting wedged into the corner behind the small table, staring down at a cup of cold coffee. His tall frame and broad shoulders dwarfed the narrow room; his elbows, spread over a scattering of papers, supported his chin as though he could scarcely lift his head. His normally ruddy complexion was pale.

‘Hi, darling!’ She bent and kissed him on the top of the ruffled dark hair. ‘I’m sorry it’s so late. I had to go all the way up to Aldeburgh. Is Tom asleep?’ She was aching to go up and cuddle the little boy.

He nodded. ‘Hours ago. How did it go?’

At last noticing his drawn, tired face her bubbling excitement died. ‘Luke? What is it? What’s wrong?’ She slid onto the stool next to him and reached out to touch his hand.

He shook his head slowly. ‘Joss, I don’t know how to tell you. Henderson and Grant is no more.’

She stared at him in shock. ‘But Barry said –’

‘Barry has done a bunk, Joss. And he’s taken all the money. I thought he was my friend. I thought our partnership was secure. I was wrong. Wrong!’ He slammed the table suddenly with his fist. ‘I went to the bank and the account had been emptied. I’ve been with accountants all day and the police. Your sister came and looked after Tom. I didn’t know what to do.’ He ran his fingers through his dishevelled hair and it dawned on Joss that he was near to tears.

‘Oh, Luke –’

‘We’re going to lose the house, Joss.’ He blundered to his feet, sending the stool on which he was sitting sliding across the tiles. Wrenching open the back door which led into their pocket handkerchief sized garden he stepped out onto the dark terrace and stared upwards towards the sky.

Joss hadn’t moved. All thoughts of her day had vanished. She was staring at the pale terracotta tiles on the wall above the worktop. It had taken her eighteen months to save up for those tiles, to find them and get someone to put them up for her. It had at long last finished the kitchen, the dream kitchen of their first home.

‘Joss.’ Luke was standing in the doorway. ‘I’m sorry.’

She rose to her feet and went to him, resting her head on his chest as he folded his arms around her. He smelled comfortably of Luke – a mixture of engine oil and aftershave and old wool and – Luke. She snuggled against him, drawing strength from just being near him. ‘We’ll think of something,’ she murmured into his jersey. ‘We’ll manage.’

He clutched her even tighter. ‘Will we?’

‘I’ll go back to teaching. That will tide us over. Especially if Lyn will look after Tom. I’m lucky to have a sister who likes babies. She gets on with him so well …’ her voice trailed away.

She had hated teaching towards the end; loathed it, feeling frustrated and confined by the syllabus, not enjoying the challenge of the kids any more. She had been in the wrong job; she knew that, though she was good at it; very good. She was not a born teacher, she was an academic and a romantic. The two did not go well together. Her pregnancy had been a godsend – unplanned, unexpected – and unbelievably, a joy and one of its greatest good points had been the fact that she could finish with teaching forever. She had resigned at the end of the spring term, resisted the blandishments of David Tregarron, the head of department, to change her mind and thrown herself into the joys of approaching motherhood. She sighed. There was a chance the school could have her back. She had only recently heard that her replacement was already leaving. But even if that didn’t happen they would certainly give her a good reference. The trouble was she didn’t want to teach any more. She wanted to look after Tom.

Taking a deep breath she stood back. The comforting normality of filling the kettle and plugging it in gave her time to gather her wits a little. ‘Hot drink and then bed. Neither of us is any good at thinking when we’re tired,’ she said firmly. ‘Tomorrow we will make a plan.’

‘Bless you, Joss.’ He hugged her quickly. Then guiltily he remembered where she had been. ‘So, tell me what happened. How did you get on? Did you find your mother?’

She shook her head, spooning the coffee into the mugs. ‘She died several years ago. The house is empty. I don’t think there is any family left.’

‘Oh, Joss –’

‘It doesn’t matter, Luke. I’ve found out about them. She was unhappy and ill and her husband had died. That was why she gave me away. And,’ suddenly she brightened, ‘apparently she left me a letter. There is a firm of solicitors I’ve got to contact. Who knows,’ she laughed suddenly. ‘Perhaps she has left me a fortune.’

‘Mrs Grant?’ John Cornish appeared at the door of his office and ushered her inside. ‘Forgive me for keeping you waiting.’ He waved her towards a chair and sat down himself at his desk. A slim plastic file lay on the blotter in front of him. He drew it towards him and then glanced up at her. A man in his early sixties, his dark suit and austere manner belied the kindness in his gentle face. ‘You brought your birth and adoption certificates and your wedding certificate? I’m sorry. It’s a formality –’

She nodded and pulled them out of her shoulder bag.

‘And you got my name from Edgar Gower?’

Joss nodded again.

Cornish shook his head. ‘I must say, I have always wondered if you would get in touch. There were only two years to go, you know.’

‘Two years?’ Joss sat tensely on the edge of the chair, her fingers knotted into the soft leather of her bag.

He nodded. ‘It’s a strange story. May I give you some coffee before I start?’ He gestured towards a tray already standing on the table by the wall.

‘Please.’ She needed coffee. Her mouth was very dry.

When they were both served John Cornish resumed his seat and sat back in his chair. He did not touch either the file on his desk or the envelope of certificates she had given him.

‘Your mother, Laura Catherine Duncan died on 15th February 1989. She moved to France from Belheddon Hall in Essex in the spring of 1984 and since then the house has remained empty. Her husband, your father, Philip Duncan, died in November 1963, his mother, who lived in the village of Belheddon, died three years ago and the two sons of Laura and Philip, your brothers, died in 1953 and 1962 respectively. I am afraid to my knowledge there is no close family extant.’

Joss bit her lip. Dragging her eyes away from his face she stared down into her cup.

‘Your mother left two letters for you,’ Cornish went on. ‘One, I understand, was written at the time of your adoption. The other was entrusted to me before she left the country. It had some rather strange conditions attached to it.’

‘Conditions?’ Joss cleared her throat nervously.

He smiled. ‘I was instructed to give it to you only if you appeared within seven years of her death. I was not to seek you out in any way. It had to be your decision to look for your roots.’

‘And if I hadn’t contacted you?’

‘Then you would not have inherited Belheddon Hall.’

Joss’s mouth fell open. ‘What did you say?’ Her hands had started to shake.

He smiled at her, clearly delighted at the effect of his words. ‘The house and its grounds which I believe extend to about ten acres, are yours, my dear. It has been waiting for you. I understand a lot of the contents are still there as well, although some things were sold before Laura left England.’

‘What would have happened to it if I hadn’t contacted you?’ Stunned, Joss frowned. She was still trying to make sense of his words.

‘Then the house was to be sold at auction with its contents and the proceeds were to go to charity.’ He paused. ‘My dear, I should warn you that although enough provision was made for the payment of any inheritance taxes there is no money to go with the bequest. It is possible that you have been left an appallingly large white elephant, and there are conditions and covenants attached to the bequest. You may not turn it down, even though of course you cannot be forced to live there, and, you may not sell the property for a period of seven years starting from the first day you set foot inside the house.’ He turned to the file before him and stood up. ‘I shall give you her letters and leave you alone for a moment while you read them.’ He handed her two envelopes with a smile. ‘I shall be in my secretary’s office if you need me.’

She sat looking down at the two envelopes for several minutes without moving. One was addressed: To my daughter, Lydia. The other had her name – the name she had taken from her step parents, Jocelyn Davies – and the date April 1984.

She picked up the one addressed to Lydia and slowly ran her finger under the flap.

The single page was embossed with the address: Belheddon Hall, Belheddon, Essex.

My darling Lydia, One day, I hope you will understand why I have done as I have done. I had no choice. I love you. I shall always love you. Please God you will be happy and safe with your new mother and father. My blessings go with you, my darling baby. God bless you always.

There was no signature. Joss felt her eyes flood with tears. She sniffed frantically, dropping the letter onto the desk. It was several seconds before she tore open the second envelope. It too was headed Belheddon Hall. This letter was longer.

My dearest Jocelyn. I am not supposed to know your name but there are people who find out these things and once in a while I have had news of you. I hope you have been happy. I have been so proud of you, my darling. Forgive me, Jocelyn, but I can no longer fight your father’s wishes, I have no strength left. I am leaving Belheddon with all its blessings and its curses, but he will only let me escape if I give in. He wants Belheddon to be yours and I have to obey. If you read this letter, he will have got his way. God bless you, Jocelyn, and keep you safe.

Laura Duncan.

Joss read the letter again, puzzled. So, it was her father’s wish that she inherit the house. She thought of the lone grave beneath the oak tree and shook her head slowly.

It was five minutes later that John Cornish put his head around the door. ‘All right?’

She nodded numbly. ‘I’m finding it hard to assimilate all this.’

He resumed his chair and gave her a kind smile. ‘I can imagine.’

‘What happens now?’

He shrugged eloquently. ‘I give you a box of keys and you go away and, as our American cousins say, enjoy.’

‘And that is all?’

‘Bar a few small formalities – papers to sign and so forth – that is all.’

She hesitated. ‘My husband’s engineering company has just folded. He’s been swindled by his partner. There is a chance he is going to be made bankrupt. We’ve lost our house – I won’t lose Belheddon?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m so sorry. But this house is yours, not your husband’s. Unless you yourself are being made bankrupt, it is safe.’

‘And we could go and live there?’

He laughed. ‘Indeed you can. Though you should remember it has been closed up a long time. I have no idea what condition it is in.’

‘I don’t care what condition it’s in. It is going to save our lives!’ Joss could hardly contain herself. ‘Mr Cornish, I don’t know how to thank you!’

He beamed at her. ‘It is your mother you should thank, Mrs Grant, not I.’

‘And my father.’ Joss bit her lip. ‘I gather it was my father who wanted me to have the house.’

It was several minutes before John Cornish’s secretary, on his instructions, appeared in his office carrying a small tin box which she laid reverently on the desk.

‘The keys, if I remember, are all neatly labelled.’ John Cornish pushed it towards Joss. ‘If you have any problems, let me know.’

She stared down at it. ‘You mean, that’s it?’

He smiled happily. ‘That’s it.’

‘It’s my house?’

‘It’s your house, to do with as you wish, provided you abide by the conditions.’ He stood up again, and extended his hand. ‘Congratulations, Mrs Grant. I wish you and your husband every happiness with your inheritance.’