Читать книгу Secrets - Freya North - Страница 14

When Joe shut the front door and Tess watched, unseen, as he drove away at eleven o'clock the next morning, she mourned the glass of red wine that had never been. But then Wolf sauntered by and headbutted her and Em was squawking and Tess told herself to get a grip and get on with it.

‘What'll we do, gang? Fresh air?’

Wolf, it soon transpired, would be taking Tess and Em for a walk. She didn't dare let him off the lead so he plunged and strained, dragging her and the buggy in his wake. The steep downward gradient of the hill on tarmac was onerous enough but when Wolf led them into the woods and the path became an uneven assault course of hairpin bends, it was quite terrifying. How safe she'd been in London – nothing more than the occasional raised paving stone to negotiate.

‘Wait!’ she said. ‘Halt!’ she said. ‘Sit!’ she said. ‘Stop, you great oaf, just stop.’ They stood in the dappled lilac-green light of woodland. Em and Wolf looking expectantly at Tess. With her composure and breath back, and Wolf having to walk with a peculiar high-stepping slo-mo gait, Tess became leader of the pack. The steep woodland suddenly opened out and levelled off in a little dell of meticulously organized Italianate design. Raised flower beds in intricate quatrefoils and curlicues currently nurtured embryonic planting that would no doubt proliferate as the weather grew warmer. Running in straight lines around the beds, a pathway plotted with regularly placed benches and punctuated by stone columns currently skeletal but which, by the summer, would be cloaked in extravagant floral displays. It was eerily quiet and though Tess tried sitting, she soon moved away.

They walked on until again the woods gave way to open meadows and a river over which catkins trickled off branches and there was a Poohsticks bridge. She found a bench for herself, plied Em with rice cakes and threw sticks for the dog. He seemed unable to track any of them but was eager to belt off in the approximate direction, bounding back to Tess as if to say, again! again! again! It made Em laugh. And it made Tess consider how pleased she was that Joe hadn't said anything about a dog because if he had, she wouldn't have taken the job. But the dog's character had won her over; his doleful mismatched eyes and soppy head-cocking were so appealing that she was now immune to his bizarre appearance. It was a novelty, having a pet part-time. And it was going to be a good thing for Em, Tess justified.

‘Fetch,’ she said, though she sat on her hands. Wolf looked at her in confusion. ‘Fetch,’ she said, hurling something imaginary which Wolf bolted off for. Daft bugger. She stroked him affectionately when he came galloping back. His ears felt like the rags she had in the back of her car. They were of a similar colour, and just as frayed. ‘Dog-eared,’ Tess laughed. ‘Come on, let's go home and get you two some lunch.’

Pushing the buggy uphill as it dinked and lurched over the pathways, while having to haul an exhausted Wolf lagging behind her was a slog and Tess decided she wouldn't be pitching quite so many imaginary sticks for the dog tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow she'd venture a little further – not afield, but into town again. Today it felt enough to have walked and walked in the woods, to have found the Italian Gardens and the river.

Back at the house, rooting around in cupboards for a tin of baked beans, she came across a jar of preserved apricots over two years out of date. And a dead moth. And then sugar that had congealed into a solid block. Next to it, a lidless jar of Marmite with a layer of fluff furring the surface. Further inspection revealed plenty more in there – crumbled packets, tins with unfurling labels, sticky bottles. But the baked beans at least were in date and there was still half the loaf of the good bread Joe had bought yesterday. She glanced at the clock. Lunch-time. Where would Joe be right now? When exactly would he be back?

The afternoon was washed away by rain which came down like old-fashioned beaded curtains so, while the child and dog were napping, Tess made a start. The only apron she could find, in a scrunch with a collection of old batteries in one of the kitchen drawers, had a cartoon illustration of a naked female body on it, complete with foam breasts that, with time and storage, had puckered like a bad boob-job. Never mind, it would have to do. After all, there was no one here to see her. The kitchen table now had a usable surface large enough (since Tess had liberated it from the piles of Joe's stuff) for her to place items to be kept. Anything out of date, or just plain dodgy (some yellowish powder that was neither sugar nor flour, some worrying dried brown pellets, the apricots, Marmite and moths) she dumped in a bin bag. The cupboards she would disinfect before reorganizing. She looked everywhere for cleaning fluid and though it appeared Joe bought Fairy liquid in bulk and had plenty of pristine cloths that looked nothing like his dog's ears, that was about it.

She thought of the dog. And the baby. And the hill. And the enclave of shops. And the hill back. And the ache in her arms and the nag in her shins. The woods were one thing – she'd liked the company of only oak, ash, hazel and alder; the solitude had made her feel so together. Human contact, she anticipated, was quite another. Too much, too soon. On her own, she could be busy and in control – but how would she answer if someone said, hullo, love, are you new to these parts? Anyway, she wanted Em to have another half-hour's sleep and by the look of Wolf, sprawled halfway across the kitchen floor, he needed the same. She rooted around in the utility room. More Fairy liquid. And cheap washing powder. Even at her most impecunious, Tess had never scrimped on buying leading brand, dermatology-tested hypo-allergenic tablets.

Better make a list – prioritize what's essential. Where's a pen when you need one? Probably up in her bag, hanging on the back of the chair in her bedroom. But two flights of creaking stairs risked waking the baby so she looked around the entrance hall, searched through the drawers of the console. Found a biro. A glove. Some loose playing cards a fair few short of a full deck. A necklace of paperclips. But no scrap paper. Well, there was a Chinese takeaway menu and an address book but all the pages were densely written in the copperplate hand of a much older generation. She cursed herself for having so ruthlessly chucked out the heap of scrap on the kitchen table. Joe had laughed and had said, OK, I get the hint. He had taken some of the papers away while authorizing her to bin the sizeable mound still on the table.

Joe's study. Tess hovered by the door. What were the rules and would this be breaking any? An invasion of privacy? Out of bounds? It hadn't been discussed. He hadn't given her the house-sitter's pack he'd mentioned. She turned the handle, half expecting the door to be locked but it wasn't.

A floor-to-ceiling bookcase ran across two entire walls, the proliferation of spines serving the eye like detailed wallpaper. On the third wall, a collection of frames. Diplomas it looked like, some authenticated by red sealing wax. Certificates. Awards. An old print of a run of classical bridges that Tess knew had to be Venice. Against this wall, a large old writing desk with an inlay of moulting green leather and a stack of drawers with brass hinge handles to either side. A specialist would wince, no doubt, that it was in desperate need of French polishing and the leather, frayed and papery, should be replaced entirely, but Tess felt that would be missing the point. The swivel chair appeared to be a little skew but she imagined that it was perfectly aligned for Joe. The fourth wall wasn't really a wall at all, dominated as it was by full-length French windows looking out to yet another aspect of the garden. From the main approach, the house appeared as an imposing solid block. But Tess now felt how it was far from this. Windows at angles, rooms at tangents to the main walls; it felt fortified, there were no blind spots, the house had been configured so that every inch of its grounds could be viewed.

To either side of the French windows, a column of thick maroon velvet hung, faded along the folds to suggest the curtains were rarely drawn. In front of them, at odds with the entire room yet dominating the space and proclaiming Joe's authority, was a vast, stark white draughtsman's table; its top angled up, a high-tech stool in position.

I'm here for a scrap of paper.

But that did not preclude finding it being a lengthy process. She glanced at the clock. Em would be waking soon – Joe, perhaps landing. Tess imagined him fastening his seatbelt thinking, Christ, who the hell is this woman I've left in charge of my house – she's probably rummaging around my study this very moment.

One of the brass handles on the desk drawers was sticking out, as if suspended in time waiting for someone to pull it. She folded it gently down. She brushed her hand over the surface of the leather inlay and took her face to it to inhale. Ink and dust and history. She smiled, recognizing some of the documents and papers that had been in a scatter on the kitchen table now in a neater pile here, on top of a less ordered pile that was itself balanced on a jumble of others. She didn't give the laptop more than a glance; it was closed, and jarringly sleek and silvery for the desk. She thought of her Hotmail account and then thought better of it. She looked at all the framed certificates and found out Joe's middle name was Randal and his surname was Saunders. She imagined he was teased about this when he was younger. There couldn't have been many Randals in Saltburn in his school days. Nor now, probably. It seemed he was top at everything he'd done. Cross-country running included. There was a beautifully calligraphed, extravagantly embossed certificate in French. Tess's knowledge of the language was limited. Some fancy accolade for M. Joseph R. Saunders. Perhaps it was the freedom of a city for which he'd built a bridge.

Building bridges is what he did and the meticulous sketches on the draughtsman's desk attested to this. Tess perched herself on the stool and peered at them. A myriad of details, they resembled completed studies of architectural fragments, replete with angles and figures and arrows and symbols. Unable to interpret the details, Tess felt a little small, intimidated by the apparent complexity and Joe's obvious expertise. How ever do these two-dimensional clippings materialize into vast structures which carry, cover and join? She swivelled the stool and thought about this. As the stool stilled, she caught sight of a wastepaper basket under the old desk. Bingo. She retrieved a handful of scrap paper and sat at the desk to write her shopping list.

Washing powder (E)

Disinfectant

Nice cheese (me)

Marmite

Organic pasta (E)

Ditto rusks (E)

Biscuits (me)

Fruit & Veg

That would do for now. She did wonder whether to replace any of the out-of-date items she'd thrown away. But then she decided if a man hadn't had the desire for preserved apricots or brown pellet things during the last two years, he probably wouldn't crave them anytime soon. She glanced at the back of the paper – or what would have been the front when it had served Joe. A column of names. Her own included. It was a list of those applying for the job. The first name had a question mark and O.C.D?! written alongside. Mrs Mackey had been rewritten as Mrs Mucky and had a large X by her name. John Forder had mass murderer and a doodle of a dagger dripping blood by his. Mr and Mrs Potts had ANCIENT!! in capital letters by theirs. Mrs Dunn, however, had a tick and an arrow to a telephone number. Then another arrow to a sizeable cross with the word busybody! Then Tess saw her name. Next to it was no tick, no cross, no arrows, just a single word. Barking. No exclamation mark to lighten it. She thought back to the phone call, where she'd used her phoney American accent before exchanging it for a whisper. She remembered accepting the job before it had been offered. Barking, she had to concede, was an acceptable definition. But she would have liked a doodle by her name all the same. She wondered how Joe would rethink this categorization having had a couple of days of her. She slumped a little as if she could physically feel how she'd let herself down. Stroppy Cow, she wrote alongside Barking.

Then she wondered, would Joe declare her a busybody for fumigating his kitchen? Would he think she had OCD for planning to enforce structure in his store cupboards? Perhaps such enterprise would earn her a great big tick, maybe even a doodle. It had been a long, long time since anyone had bestowed a seal of approval on her. Even the paltry tips at the salon had fallen short of being anything but a formality. She looked at her nails and added Emery board (me) to the list. She'd left her manicure set on the sofa in London. A feeble gesture, but a gesture all the same. It was a professional kit and had been expensive. She hoped her landlord, nasty man, might know so. Would he have called by now? Three days, she reminded herself, that's all it's been.

Wolf seemed unable to stand upright, let alone go for another walk, so Tess gave him the benefit of the doubt and let him out into the garden where she chided him for doing his business and then felt bad because he looked so confused. It made her think she should leave him be and instead train Em not to venture to that particular area. After all, wasn't the garden large enough to accommodate all of them? She'd poop-scoop, that's what she'd do. She'd timetable it in, every day.

‘Come on, Em. Wolf – you can stay here.’

She took the buggy though Em toddled alongside for part of the way. This time, they stuck to the pavement on the opposite side to the valley gardens, passing by the magnificent Victorian buildings, trying to sneak a look through the beautifully proportioned windows.

‘See sigh!’ the baby's pudgy hand waved excitedly.

‘Not today, baby,’ Tess said, skimming wary eyes along the beach. There was a pebbly area where the river-mouth met the beach, everywhere else the sand was a perfect blond. Today the wind whipped the surface sending sand whispering over the beach like smoke.

‘See sigh,’ Em repeated as if indignant that enunciating the words hadn't led to the reward of the real thing. They were standing at the railings again, from where they'd watched Joe and Wolf cavorting the day before yesterday.

‘Sorry,’ said Tess, ‘Mummy doesn't like the beach.’ Then she looked around her and said, but Mummy does like the pier.

Tess pushed the buggy along the lower promenade, passing the old beach chalets in red and white all battened down against the spring squalls; on past a closed café, an open surf shop. She walked around the small amusement centre at the entrance to the pier, went through the ornamental gateway and walked out onto the boardwalk. The tide was out leaving the sand with a mirrored surface on which a string of horses was being ridden. They were passing right under the trestles and Tess and Em looked down on them from one side of the pier to the other, like large living Poohsticks. For all its impressive length, the pier was plain, austere almost, with none of the lurid jollity of Brighton or the tasteful and innovative renovation of Southwold. But when Tess looked around her, up and down the coast, inland, out to sea, to the sky, she thought how the point of this pier was perfectly realized – to serve the views.

Along the length were occasional benches, sat upon by elderly couples in a huddle to watch time pass while allowing the bracing sea air to do them the power of good. They cooed over Em who smiled on cue. Tess looked down to the shore line as she continued to walk along the pier; the spray from the wave crests was being blasted back to sea – nature breaking the rules. At the end of the pier, a snuggle of men fishing. Tess ventured up to them, gingerly – it was windy and the pier was high. Their buckets were empty but that didn't seem to be the point, rather eating sandwiches and sharing their flasks of tea did. Plenty more fish in the sea, one man called after Tess. She laughed though she said to herself, yeah right. Been there. Done that. Got the baby.

Tess shivered. She wanted to scrub out the kitchen before having to prepare supper. She picked up her pace which allowed for only a cursory glance at the cliff lift Joe had pointed out, now rising steeply right in front of her. Gaily painted in similar shades to the chalets and the promenade buildings, it appeared to be a near-vertical funicular. Another day. No rush. She wasn't going anywhere, after all. Hadn't Joe said he wanted her to stay long-term? Leaning the top of her head into the wind, she retraced her steps briskly.

‘Easy!’

She looked up, just in time to avoid a slippery mound of neoprene, which appeared to have been just stripped off and flung in the middle of the walkway outside the surf store; like some felled mutant creature from the deep. The voice belonged to a young wet man saronging himself in a towel. His hair, in long shaggy blond ringlets, held drips of water at each tip and they flew off in a sprinkle as his head moved. He was pale-skinned but brawny. Briny too by the look of his slightly bloodshot eyes and soggy hands and feet. With his chiselled features, he looked rather exotic for his surroundings.

‘In the water I don't feel the cold,’ he said, in a light Australian accent, ‘but as I walk back across the beach I start fantasizing about my towel.’

By the look of his nipples, the shiver of his torso and the blue tinge to his lips, Tess reckoned he could do with another towel around his top half. She didn't say so, she just nodded and walked on.

‘Do you surf?’

‘No fear,’ she said as she walked.

‘Well – if you've no fear, as you say, then come by one day and I'll teach you.’

‘Not likely,’ Tess laughed.

‘Can't swim?’

She stopped and turned. ‘I can. I just don't do sand,’ she said.

‘I'm Seb. I work here.’

She called over her shoulder as she walked away again. ‘I'm Tess. I work up there.’

Not rude, Seb reckoned. Just shy.