Читать книгу The Forgotten Cottage - Helen Phifer - Страница 13
ОглавлениеAnnie had promised Lily she would call in on her way home from work to meet the new housekeeper that Tom had agreed to before they had let him leave the hospital. Tom had accused Will and Lily of blackmail but eventually he had said yes. He had told Will when they were alone that he’d only put up a fight because he didn’t want Lily to think he didn’t think she could cope. Tom and Will both knew quite well that she could cope but Tom wanted to be able to spend as much time with Lily as he could without her worrying about the cleaning or shopping.
Annie parked out the front of their house and sighed. It didn’t matter how many times she visited, she just couldn’t believe that someone could live in a place so beautiful, although the cottage that she and Will had just signed the contract for would one day look beautiful too, just not on such a grand scale. She walked up the stone steps and patted one of the stone lions that flanked the front door on the head. It was force of habit and one which tickled Will every time he saw her do it but he’d never teased her about it—well, not much. She rang the doorbell and waited patiently instead of using the key Lily had insisted she have in case she ever needed somewhere to hide and they weren’t in.
The door opened and Annie was surprised to see a woman around the same age as she was; she had envisaged an older woman wearing a black and white maid’s uniform opening the door. This tall blonde woman had a pair of black three-quarter jeans on, a black T-shirt and a duster in one hand and tin of polish in the other.
‘Hello, you must be Amelia. My name is Annie. I’m Tom’s soon-to-be daughter-in-law.’
The woman’s mouth formed a smile but it never quite reached her eyes. ‘Yes, I am, I’ve heard a lot about you, Annie.’
She stepped to one side to let Annie pass. The way she looked at her made her feel uneasy.
‘They’re in the library.’
And then she walked away, back to whatever it was she was polishing, leaving Annie to it. Annie didn’t like her but had no idea why. She’d never seen her before in her life and wondered why she felt so strongly about the woman. She was blonde and pretty with a look of Laura, one of Will’s work colleagues who was now dead, so that might be why. Although she and Will had got over the almost one-night stand he never had with Laura it still plagued her on the odd occasion. She walked along the hall until she reached the library door and knocked. Tom’s voice told her to come in and she opened the door, surprised to see Tom sitting at the desk and Lily sitting on the chair. Annie walked over and bent down to kiss Tom’s cheek. She grinned at Lily.
‘How are you feeling today, Tom? I hope you’re being a model patient.’
‘I’d be a lot better if people would stop fussing over me.’
He looked at Lily when he spoke and she rolled her eyes at him. ‘You’re such a crank, Tom Ashworth; if I didn’t love you I wouldn’t want to be with you because you’re driving me mad, as well you know with all your moaning.’
Lily winked at Annie and left the room.
‘Sorry, Annie, we were just in the middle of a discussion and Lily was losing, badly. She’s such a sore loser.’
‘Ah, well, most women are. What’s up; is it anything I can help with?’
‘Not really.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Lily doesn’t like our new housekeeper; she wants me to tell her we don’t require her services any more. I’ve told her she’s staying until I don’t need someone to run around after me and then she can do whatever she wants with her. I mean, we don’t know the girl and you can’t sack someone for giving off bad vibes, can you? Not that I can sense any, but super sleuth Lily can.’
Annie laughed. ‘You do know that a woman is nearly always right, don’t you, Tom, even when they’re not?’
‘I do—I’ve learnt that the hard way—but I also know when a woman needs a hand and Lily is too proud to ask for help so I’ve had to take the lead. She’ll get over it. I think she was expecting Mrs Doubtfire to walk in and take over the cleaning.’
He began to laugh and Annie joined him; it was the best sound she’d heard in ages. He was definitely on the mend.
Lily came back in with a tray filled with cups, saucers and a cafetière of fresh coffee. ‘Has he told you what I think?’
Annie nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘Ah, this has nothing to do with me so I’ll keep out of it if you don’t mind. It’s still early days. You can see how it’s going in a couple of weeks and then decide.’
Tom looked at his wife. ‘See? The voice of reason. Listen to the nice police officer; she talks very good sense.’
Lily poked Tom in the ribs then bent down and kissed his head. ‘You drive me mad, Tom.’
‘Yes, I suppose I do but you love me all the same.’
They changed the conversation to Apple Tree Cottage and what Tom thought of the plans they’d had drawn up by Jake’s partner Alex, who was an architect.
‘It’s a lovely old place; I think you and Will are going to be very happy in there. Now, how long do I have to practise lifting a glass to my lips without spilling a single drop of champagne at your wedding reception?’
‘Eight weeks—I can’t believe how fast it’s coming around. I’m so glad I have you to help with the planning, Lily, because I really haven’t got a clue.’
At the mention of the wedding Lily’s face brightened and a smile spread across it. Tom winked at Annie and sat quietly, listening to the plans Lily had to turn their back garden into a romantic fairy tale grotto. If it kept Lily happy it meant he was happy and he nodded along as the two women chatted about dresses, menus, guests and cake.
After an hour Annie stood up. ‘Sorry, I need to get going; Will has promised that he’ll be home in time for tea tonight so I want to be there to photograph the occasion.’
Tom laughed. ‘I never knew that two men could be so lucky to find such amazing women.’
Annie kissed them both. ‘I’ll let myself out.’
She walked to the door and opened it, surprised to see Amelia standing on the other side, her cheeks burning. She nodded at her and then walked to the front door and let herself out. There was definitely something she didn’t like about that woman and she hoped it wouldn’t turn into something bad.
***
Will walked through the front door as promised at ten past six and Annie pretended to faint.
‘Ha ha, very funny. Jake’s on his way. Apparently he and Alex have something they want to tell you and it can’t be done over the phone; it has to be done in person.’
‘What is it; did he say?’
‘Nope, it’s top secret; you have to be the first to know, before anyone else.’
‘I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. I called to see your dad on my way home; he looks so much better and he was very chatty. Lily is pissed off with him, though, about that Amelia.’
‘Ah, yes, the ice queen. She’s a funny woman. She didn’t crack a smile once when I was joking with her the other day. In fact she wouldn’t even look at me, apart from the odd sneaky glance. I’ll have to tell Stu that I’ve finally found a woman who doesn’t find me irresistible.’
‘That’s so vain, Will; I can’t believe you just said that. But yes, I suppose there are some women who won’t find you their type. Lesbians for one.’
‘You’re just jealous, Annie.’
He dodged the slap she aimed for his arm and grabbed hold of her, pulling her towards him. ‘But I only have eyes for you.’
‘Good, I’m glad about that because I can’t live without you. So what’s happening in the high profile world of CID this week—anything exciting?’
‘Not much, thank God. My department has had more excitement in two years than it has in the last twenty. Just the same old stuff really; the most exciting thing to happen this week was someone had their already broken petrol generator stolen from their shed by someone they already knew and identified.’
There was a loud knock on the door and Will opened it to see a beaming Jake and Alex standing on the other side. Jake was holding a bottle of champagne and offered it to Annie.
‘To what do we owe this pleasure?’
Jake stepped in, followed by Alex.
‘We wanted you to be the first to know. We’re going to be parents.’
Annie threw her arms around Jake, squeezing him tight and then Alex. ‘Aw, congratulations, but if you don’t mind me asking, how?’
Will stepped forward to shake their hands. ‘Congratulations, guys.’
Jake followed Annie into the kitchen. ‘What do you think—we kept it quiet, eh?’
‘You certainly did—have you found someone to be a surrogate?’
‘Oh, God, no, there are so many kids out there who need loving homes we put our names down to adopt last year and have been going through the process for months now. This morning we got told that a three-month-old baby girl needed a home sooner rather than later. I can’t wait! I never thought I’d say this but I guess looking after you has made me broody.’
Annie stared at him. ‘What are you trying to say—that I’m like some big kid?’
Alex pulled a face at Will and the pair of them began talking about the latest football results, neither of them wanting to get involved.
‘Of course not, Annie, but I do get to babysit you a lot and I’m just saying it made me realise how much I like taking care of people.’
Annie kept her temper in check, not wanting to spoil what was obviously an important day for both of them, but Jake had a knack of putting his size twelve feet in his mouth without thinking almost every time he opened it.
‘That’s okay then. I’ll let you off and I suppose that you are a very good babysitter.’
The tension in the room dissipated and Will felt his shoulders relax. He popped the cork on the champagne bottle and poured it into the four glasses he had just taken from the cupboard, handing Alex one first.
He downed it and smiled. ‘You have such a way with words, Jake, I’m surprised anyone even bothers speaking to you most of the time.’
‘I do, Alex; it’s like a gift from the gods.’
This made all four of them laugh. You couldn’t stay mad at Jake – well, not for very long. Annie wondered if she would ever have such news to tell her friends and, judging by the look on Will’s face, she thought that one day she might. He was looking very wistful into his champagne glass.
‘Here’s to Jake and Alex, who are going to be amazing parents.’
Will toasted them and then downed his drink as well.
1782
Betsy didn’t watch the cart which brought her mother’s coffin to the front door; she didn’t want to see it. Mrs Whitman had been the village’s local layer of the dead for years and had gone in to wash and dress her mother in her Sunday best, ready to be laid into the coffin. The funeral was not for another three days but she felt as if she had already outstayed her welcome here, at the Whitmans’ house; tonight she must go back home and sleep in her own bed. She was tired and hoped this would make her sleep and forget the fact that her mother’s body was lying downstairs, slowly rotting away. She wasn’t sure whether it was guilt she’d felt or relief when the doctor had said she had bled to death from a burst blood vessel and there was nothing Betsy could have done to stop it. She had thanked him, knowing fine well it was nothing of the sort, but she didn’t want him to suspect her of any wrongdoing. Mrs Whitman and two of her mother’s friends had been in and cleaned the house from top to bottom, ready for Betsy to go home. They had offered to go back in with her but she had told them, ‘No, thank you.’ They had done more than enough.
It was dusk by the time they had finished and Betsy said goodbye to them as they sat around Mrs Whitman’s small kitchen table drinking tea. She went to her own house and paused at the front door; on the step was a bunch of freshly picked meadow flowers and a note. Bending to pick them up, she smiled to see Joss’s name on the note. How sweet of him to have taken the time to bring them. Forgetting all about her deadly crime, she went into the house and over to the sink where, on the kitchen windowsill, there was a glass jar. Joss was so tall and handsome; he had such a sweet smile. Her mother had rarely smiled at Betsy, even as a child, whereas Joss grinned the moment he saw her, making her feel special. No one had made her feel like that since her father had died and she liked it.
Humming to herself, she filled the jar with water and put the flowers inside. Turning to put them on her small kitchen table, she gasped when she heard a groan come from behind the curtain where her mother’s bed was. Her fingers slipping on the wet glass, she almost dropped the jar, just managing to put it down before it fell to the floor and smashed into a million pieces. She stood still, her head cocked to the side, listening for the sound again. It was dark in the cramped room and she really needed to light some candles but she was afraid to move. Behind the curtain, she could see the outline of the wooden coffin containing her mother’s corpse. How could this be—had she not been told herself that the woman was dead? The doctor had said that she was dead—maybe she had just been in a deep sleep and not dead at all. Betsy did not dare to move and stood there waiting, but there was no more noise so she convinced herself it had been her imagination then set about washing her hands and lighting candles. The curtain was drawn and there was no way on this earth she would open it and look at her mother’s cold body. Mrs Whitman had placed fresh flowers around the kitchen and the sweet fragrance filled the air. Betsy took a candle and made her way up the stairs, as far away from the coffin as she could get.
Upstairs, she changed into her white cotton nightdress and climbed into the cold bed; she settled herself down and pulled the soft blanket up to her face. Her eyelids felt so heavy, she was glad for small mercies and leant across to the wooden bedside table and blew out the candle. She closed her eyes at the same time so she did not have to see the shadows which filled the corners of her room. Within no time at all she was asleep, too tired to dream.
The next thing she knew, the clock in the kitchen chimed three and Betsy opened her eyes; she had been restless for the last half an hour, too tired to wake up, but then she heard the scraping noise. This was different to the mice she could sometimes hear scurrying around up in the attic; it was much heavier, as if someone was moving a piece of furniture around downstairs. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she realised that someone was in her house. The sharp sound of breaking glass made her flinch. Scared beyond anything she had ever felt in her life, she summoned the courage to get out of bed to go and see who it was. She felt around for the candle and managed to light it on the third attempt. Who would be so disrespectful to break into her home with her mother’s dead body still inside? Opening her bedroom door, she took a step forward onto the small landing and froze. The dragging sound was approaching the stairs and every hair on her arms began to stand on end.
‘Who’s there?’ Her voice wavered and she did not feel very brave as whatever it was continued to move in her direction.
‘I will scream if you come near me. Get out of this house at once before I open the window and scream until everyone in the village comes running to see what is happening.’
There was no reply but the dragging sound ceased. Betsy began to breathe a little slower. Whoever it was had gone, scared at her threats. She would give them time to leave the house and then she would go down to see what they had been doing. There were some rascals in the village but she did not think any of them would be so low as to come into her house when she was all alone in the middle of the night. She counted to one hundred and was about to step forward when the dragging started again, this time quicker and in the direction of the stairs. Terrified, she stepped back then turned to run into her bedroom, but as she turned she caught a glimpse of the figure that was now at the bottom of the stairs. It was almost bent double, wearing her mother’s funeral clothes. She ran into her bedroom and slammed the door shut, throwing her back against it, and began to scream.
It was Seth, Mrs Whitman’s son, who came to see what was happening. He hammered on the front door and she ran to the bedroom window and leant out.
He looked up at her. ‘Blimey, Betsy, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost. What’s the matter with you? Screaming loud enough to wake the dead up yonder in the churchyard!’
She whispered, ‘There’s someone in the house, standing at the bottom of the stairs. Please help me.’
He rattled the door handle but it was locked. ‘I can’t get in; it’s locked up tight. Did you leave a window open—how did they get in? I’ll go fetch my dad; he might be able to get the door open.’
‘No,’ she shouted after him and he turned back to look up at her face.
‘Well, what am I to do?’
‘Please don’t go, don’t leave me. Kick the door in and if you cannot then break a window. I don’t care as long as you come inside and chase away whoever is downstairs. I’m so scared.’
He bent down and ran at the door with his shoulder as hard as he could. The door, which was old and not in a very good state of repair, cracked and then splintered and he fell through it onto the cold stone floor of the kitchen. He couldn’t see much because of the stars which were flashing in front of his eyes. Betsy shouted down to him and he dragged himself up onto all fours. He squinted as his vision adjusted to the dark and looked around. There was no sign of anyone standing at the bottom of the stairs or anywhere else and he shouted to her, ‘Everything is all right; there is no one in here…well, except for you and me, oh, and your mother.’
Betsy ran down the stairs and threw herself into his arms. ‘Oh, my Lord, I have never been so scared. Thank you.’
She lit two more candles and looked around the room. The flowers she had placed on the kitchen table were now lying on the floor in a damp puddle amongst the broken glass of the jar she had put them in.
‘Look—see, someone was in here and it looked as if they were wearing my mother’s clothes. Please take a look inside her coffin and make sure she is still wearing her best dress.’
Seth squirmed but then did as she asked; he didn’t want her to tell everyone he was afraid of a dead body. Picking up a candle, he walked over and drew back the curtain. He paused and wrinkled his nose at the smell. Stepping closer, he looked down into the coffin then stepped away again and turned to Betsy.
‘Your mother is still wearing her Sunday best that she wore to church every week. Are you sure you weren’t having a bad dream? I mean, you’ve had a shock and all that; it’s bound to have been playing on your mind.’
Betsy, who had finished sweeping the broken glass, turned to look at him. Could it have been a dream or maybe it had been her guilty conscience? You couldn’t just take another person’s life and not expect to be affected by the matter. She nodded her thanks to him but she knew deep down that it had been no dream. How had the jar been smashed? There was no wind tonight and they had no animals in the house, not even a rat would be interested in a jar of flowers. She didn’t want to stop in this house a minute longer.
‘Please can I come back with you? I don’t want to be in here on my own.’
He looked across at the coffin and then at Betsy. She was only two years older than him and he tried to imagine how it must feel to have to share a house with just your dead mother and a cold chill ran down his back.
‘Course you can, but you’ll have to stay on the chair downstairs. I don’t want my mother accusing me of things that are not true.’
She frowned at him, too wrapped up in her own world to realise what he was trying to say, then she nodded. Too scared to look in the direction of the coffin, she left the house and shut the door behind her, locking it and locking her mother inside.
Mrs Whitman was already awake when they went inside and she took one look at Betsy’s white face and went across and held her.
‘Child, you can stay here until they take your mother away and bury her. I never thought it through. I’m so used to the dead, they don’t bother me one little bit, but this is the first time you have had to deal with it and I should have been a bit more considerate.’
The relief which washed through Betsy was enormous and she would be eternally grateful to this woman who had shown her more kindness in the last few days than her mother had her entire life.
The day finally came for the funeral and as they all lined up along the front street watching the coffin get loaded onto the handcart Betsy had to stop herself from smiling. She was finally going to be free of that awful woman and she could go back into her own home and sleep in her own bed. The villagers who had lined up along the square all walked behind the cart as it was pushed through the narrow streets to the church. Betsy noted that Joss was standing outside the pub with his cap in his hands and his head bowed. She turned her head to look back at him and as he stared at her she gave him what she hoped was a sad smile. Now in his eyes they both shared the same pain in their hearts: he had lost his wife and she her mother. Even though Betsy was glad to be free of her burden she would never let Joss know that because he genuinely grieved for his wife. She hoped he would still be there after the funeral because she very much wanted to talk to him.
The church service was short and the burial even shorter. As the priest said his parting words she stepped forward to throw down a bunch of daisies she had picked this morning from the fields at the back of the house and whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Mother, but you have to rest in peace and leave me alone now. I have my own life to live.’ Betsy stayed until the last and watched as her neighbours and the other villagers filed out of the church gate, down the steep steps until she was on her own. She felt a warm hand on her shoulder and turned to see Joss standing behind her.
‘Come on, Miss Betsy, there is nothing more you can do now.’
She smiled at him and nodded. ‘I do believe you are right, Joss. Will you take me to the pub so I can have a drink to toast her and drown my sorrows at the same time?’
She reached out and clasped his hand. At first he wasn’t sure what to do but then he gripped it gently and together they left the grave and walked back towards the pub. It was busy inside, the locals loving nothing more than a funeral as a good excuse to not do any work and drink ale all day. She sat on a chair in the corner and waited while Joss went to the bar to get her a drink. He came back with one each and then he sat down next to her. The next couple of hours went past in a blur and Betsy got drunker and drunker until she could not stand straight.
When Mrs Whitman brought her back she nodded at Joss. ‘I think you should take her home, Joss, make sure she’s tucked up in bed and lock the door behind you.’
He nodded. He knew that Mrs Whitman trusted him but he did not know if he trusted himself; she was all he could think about until an image of his wife would appear in front of his eyes and remind him he was a married man. He stood up and helped Betsy to her feet.
‘Come on, Betsy. I think it’s time you and me went home now.’
Betsy began to laugh. ‘Why, Joss, are you finally propositioning me? I thought the day would never come.’
His cheeks began to burn but he grinned at the same time. ‘Not as such. I just want to make sure you get home safely. Seth told me about the other night and how you thought there was an intruder in your house.’
He took hold of her arm and walked her towards the front of the busy pub and out of the door into the cobbled street. It was dusk now and he really should get back to his children; he’d been gone all afternoon. He walked Betsy across the village square and towards her house. They went inside and he began to light some candles and close the windows, which had been left open to air the house through and get rid of the smell of death. She stumbled as she walked across the room to where there was a curtain drawn across; tugging it open, she nodded at the empty bed then turned back to him.
‘Are you going to tuck me in, Joss, make sure I’m safe?’
He nodded, not sure if he should be taking a young woman upstairs to her bedroom, but he didn’t want her falling. As she stumbled her way to the top and into her bedroom he followed her. She began to undress and once more he felt his cheeks begin to burn and he turned around to face the wall until she had put her got into bed. He felt her warm hands wrap around his waist and, as he turned to face her, she hugged him.
‘Thank you, Joss. Today you have been my protector and I like it. I like it very much. If I can ever repay the favour I will.’
‘You are very welcome, Betsy. Grief is a terrible thing.’
Before he could finish what he was saying she stood on her tiptoes and put her soft lips against his much rougher ones. He paused, knowing this was wrong, but then he pushed the thought to one side and kissed her back. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she didn’t stop and he didn’t want her to. Scooping her up, he carried her over to the bed and laid her down, climbing on next to her. His hands ran up and down her legs and he marvelled at how soft her skin was and how good she smelt. She began tugging at his trousers and he wanted nothing more than to bury himself inside her but he stopped, guilt at the thought of his dead wife and his two boys who were waiting for him back at the farm making everything which had seemed so wonderful only seconds ago feel so wrong.
He pulled himself off her and stood up. ‘I’m sorry, Betsy, I really am. I shouldn’t have acted like that with you, especially when you are so upset.’
‘Joss, now is not the time to take the moral high ground. I want you and I know you want me…well, you did a minute ago.’
She reached out and let her fingers trail over the front of his trousers.
‘Yes, I do want you, I did want you, but I have to get home to my boys. They will be wondering where I’ve got to. They need me.’
Betsy felt a cold shard of jealousy stab straight through her heart. He thought the little bastards were more important than her and what she would have let him do to her would have made most men’s dreams come true. Her eyes narrowed but she said nothing, just nodded.
He fastened his trousers and tucked his shirt back in. ‘I will come and see you tomorrow; you get some sleep.’
And with that he turned and left her alone in her bed. She waited until she heard him close the front door and then she screamed and hit her fists against the pillow in frustration, hatred forming in the pit of her stomach against nine-year-old twin boys she had never even met. They would not get in the way of what she wanted—and what she wanted was their father and his big house. The alcohol began to make her brain foggy and her eyes began to close. She drifted off to sleep, dreaming of a big cottage to live in, with just her and Joss and no horrid children running around in the garden spoiling her life.
