Читать книгу The Secret Art of Forgiveness: A feel good romance about coming home and moving on - Louisa George, Louisa George - Страница 10

Chapter Three

‘He’s a lot worse than I thought. We need to get some regular paid help. Or move him into a home.’

Yes. That’s what she’d say to Tam and Tilda. Firmly and politely as if she were pitching for a new account. Someone needed to take control here and it looked as if it was going to be Emily, whether she liked it or not. All in a week.

Then, when they got back from Paris, she’d be able to leave knowing she’d done her bit. ‘We can use his retirement money. He worked hard all his life, so there must be lots, right? How do we get the ball rolling on this one?’ That’s how she’d pitch it.

After a woeful night’s sleep she was lying in her old single bed staring up at the ceiling, and planning. It was five-thirteen in the morning and the first fingers of daylight were creeping through the ill-fitting, faded, white-and-pink floral curtains – still the same ones as when she’d spent many, many hours sitting here plotting her escape the first time around. The pale-blue wallpaper hadn’t changed either.

Although, now the room had the addition of a strategically placed bucket under what appeared to be a crack in the ceiling. Thank goodness it hadn’t rained overnight. The hole explained the fetid damp smell, and clearly the room hadn’t been used as anything much since she’d left.

They’d removed all trace of her, though. Her boy-band posters had gone, the clothes she hadn’t had room for in her bag when she’d hurriedly packed and tiptoed out in the early hours of that July morning. Her duvet – the one her mum had bought her the Christmas before she died – gone. Now it was just another box room in a house full of empty spaces.

She pulled back the curtains and at the same time heard a beep. Her phone! Back to life! She reached into her bag, which she’d left by the window, and found one lonely blob in the top corner of the phone display.

‘Yay! Reception! Hello, world! I’m here! Anyone? Someone!’ She crawled back into bed and settled herself to read.

The blob disappeared.

‘No. No, no, no! Come back. This is like an end-of-the-world zombie movie and I’m the only survivor. Is there anybody out there?’ She crawled out from under the duvet again and stood by the window. One blob! Clearly phone reception only worked in this corner of the room.

She scanned through her messages – none from Brett, she noticed with disappointment. Timing meant he was probably asleep. She’d call him later and explain again why she was here and see if he understood. Which was probably a fruitless idea, really, because she didn’t wholly understand her need to be here herself.

There was a noise outside, below her room. A thud. Two.

What the hell? Emily held her breath, wondering what to do.

Then she heard the creak of the big front door and voices.

Strange.

Was The Judge up and about already? Who was he talking to?

‘Judge? Judge, is that you?’ she called out. Then clamped her lips together. What if it wasn’t The Judge?

Myriad horror scenes flooded her head.

‘Too many zombie movies, you stupid cow,’ she whispered, as she crept out of bed and tiptoed down the two flights of stairs. ‘It’ll be fine. Just a cat… or something.’

Investigating the noise was a sure-fire way of meeting a grisly end. But what else could she do?

There was a definite chill in the air, as if someone had let a gust of snow through the house, and muffled voices coming from the kitchen. She followed them.

Through the crack in the door she could see The Judge, dressed in a flimsy, overlarge, collared shirt that would have given his Savile Row tailors nightmares, and ancient khaki shorts. Another man had his back to the door, but from what she could see he was very tall with short hair, and dressed all in black. Like a cat burglar.

Who the heck was he? And why was he here at this time in the morning? Her fists curled by her sides.

If this was someone taking advantage of a confused old man she’d throw everything she had at them. She looked down at her empty hands. She wouldn’t be much of a threat like this. Glancing around, she found an old boot by the door, which she picked up ready to fling if necessary, and another bucket, sitting underneath yet another crack in the ceiling. The whole house seemed to be about to crumble.

‘Judge? What’s going on?’ She strode into the room, aware that she probably didn’t look terribly menacing in her sparkly I heart New York T-shirt and Daisy Duke Denim shorts, brandishing a single, moss-green wellington boot – but it was the best she could do under the circumstances. She snarled at the stranger’s back. ‘Who are you?’

‘I might ask you the very same thing.’ The man turned around and stared at her – a long, slow burn taking in her bed hair and T-shirt, her legs, which incidentally felt pretty naked – his eyes widened. Suspicion curled around his tone.

And, whoa. Not a cat burglar at all, but a tall, quite broad man who looked like an extra from a James Bond movie with his all-black get-up outlining honed muscles, and short, mussed-up, blond hair.

She wasn’t scared by him. She probably should have been, but she wasn’t. He was trespassing, after all, not her. ‘I’m Emi – actually, what has it got to do with you?’

His voice was stone. ‘Judge Evans is a friend of mine and I’ve never seen you before. Who are you?’

Hey, she was family not him. ‘I’m his… er… daughter.’

‘No, you’re not. I know Matilda and Tamara and you’re neither of them. Believe me, I’d have remembered meeting you.’ And he didn’t mean that in a good way if the frown over his penetrating blue eyes was anything to go by.

They made her feel just a little on edge. Okay, a lot on edge. ‘I’m Emily. The one no one mentions.’

‘No one mentions her because she doesn’t exist. Let’s ask your daddy, shall we?’ He leaned over towards The Judge, eyes glinting, and pointed at her. ‘Judge –’

She tried to stop him. ‘Oh, you… you think you’re being clever, don’t you? We both know he’s –’

‘Judge Evans, excuse me, sir, but can you tell me who this lady is?’ And of course his voice was melt-in-your-mouth polite to The Judge.

The Judge peered at her with rheumy, sunken eyes and frowned. ‘Can’t say I know, to be honest.’

‘Is she your daughter?’

‘Oh, no. I don’t have… Oh, wait… yes. Yes! I know you.’

Emily snarled at the intruder. ‘See?’

‘Yes… you’re… someone. Now… who? Oh, yes. The cook.’ The old man smiled, clearly pleased he’d passed the test. ‘Have either of you seen Chip? The little bugger’s disappeared on me again.’

The intruder shook his head and bobbed down in front of the old man, his voice a damned sight softer than when he was talking to Emily. ‘Judge Evans, I’m sorry, but Chip’s gone, I’m afraid. Remember?’

‘Gone? Oh, yes… I remember now. The car? That’s right. He was run over. Rum old state of affairs. Poor bugger never had a chance.’

The man shook his head. ‘I know.’ Then he uncoiled to his full, too-tall height and turned to Emily, holding out his hand, all softness gone. ‘The cook? Is that what you told him? I’ve heard about people like you. I need to see some ID.’

‘So do I.’ She did the same with her hand. And there they were in stalemate, eyes locked in a game of who the hell would back down first.

For the record, it wasn’t going to be her.

Just as her arm was beginning to shake with waiting he blew out a breath and fished his wallet out. ‘Here. Here’s my ID. Jacob Taylor. I live next door.’

‘The Lawsons’ old place?’

He nodded, eyebrows rising. ‘Yes.’

‘So if you know Tam and Tilda and The Judge, then surely one of them would have mentioned I was coming here?’

‘I haven’t seen Tamara or Matilda for weeks. I’ve been away for work, flew back in this morning. Luckily, I did, otherwise God knows where The Judge would have ended up.’ It was more growl than conversational. Oh, she did not like this man at all. ‘Now, your ID? Miss?’ He glanced at her left hand, nodding as he saw the diamond. ‘Miss…?’

It was none of his business.

‘You’re not the police. This is my house.’ Kind of, in a roundabout way. She put her hands on her hips. ‘I don’t need to show you anything.’

‘Well, I’m not leaving until I see something that says who you are, or have someone vouch for you.’

She could hardly say, pop down to the village and find someone called Greta who has kids and a husband and a café, she knew me twelve years ago, and finding anyone else in Little Duxbury to vouch for her at this time in the morning would be nigh on impossible, and she so wanted this obnoxious man to be gone. ‘Okay. Okay. Just wait here.’

She was back within minutes, panting after taking the rickety stairs two at a time. ‘Here. My passport. I used to live here, with The Judge and now I live in New York. Fine? Am I allowed back into my own kitchen? Sir?’

He still didn’t look convinced but he snapped the passport shut and gave it back to her. ‘Well, if it is your house perhaps you can spend a bit of time and effort fixing it up. It’s falling apart and your sisters don’t appear to be interested.’

‘Step.’

He blinked. ‘Sorry?’

‘Stepsisters, stepfather. My mum married their dad… a long time ago. Then she died and I was… Well, I’m sure they’re doing their best under the circumstances.’ And wow, those words coming out of her mouth surprised her, but who was he to come in here telling her what to do and criticising her… her family?

That thought was a swift blow to her solar plexus. Just because she’d come here, it didn’t mean she was part of anything. She was just helping out.

He lowered his voice. ‘Where I come from, family isn’t about blood and we look after our own. Judge Evans needs more care than they’re giving him.’

‘Well, I’m here now so things will get done.’ And there was a curl of panic in the pit of her stomach, but she wasn’t going to give in to it.

He carried on as if what she was saying was of no consequence. ‘It’s Sunday, so it’s Tilda’s night. They take it in turns; half a week each and Marion, the sitter, on Saturday. Which, surely you’d know, if you were really their sister. Step or otherwise.’

‘There was something about a carer breaking her leg and Tilda and Tamara had to go to Paris to be with Sylvie – their mother. She needs an operation. So here I am. Not that I have to explain anything to you.’ She shrugged and turned to The Judge to indicate to Mr No Social Skills that the conversation was over. Although, as he appeared to be the only person able to give her any inside information on The Judge, he was probably worth mining for information. ‘Actually, about The Hall, you were saying it needs fixing…?’

Judging by his pained expression she probably didn’t want to hear his answer. ‘The roof is rotten and if it’s not fixed the whole place will fall down in the next big downpour we have. As regards The Judge, Tamara is very bossy and treats him like a naughty child instead of stimulating him. He can’t live here on his own any more. In fact…’ The intruder gestured to her to follow him into the hallway. ‘I can’t say this in front of Judge Evans, but he gets quite confused and goes wandering. He’s going to hurt himself or worse. He’s a good man and I’d hate to see that happen to him.’

Emily sighed, inwardly. She’d come here thinking all she had to do was make the odd cup of tea and provide a pencil for his crossword, perhaps pull a rug over his knees and finally make amends. Some fresh country air, and time out to think about Brett and their future.

Not… not policing a frail old man and mending a broken house.

Suddenly the enormity of what she’d taken on started to become clearer. She didn’t even know how to climb a ladder safely, never mind build a roof… or whatever you did to make roofs watertight. How could she fix things with The Judge when he didn’t even know who she was? She didn’t have nursing skills; that much was proven when her mum died and Emily had utterly fallen apart. Working twenty-four hours in a day didn’t bother her, and neither did the prospect of dealing with two hundred sex-obsessed dogs, but where illness and death were concerned she didn’t have coping strategies, she just panicked. Because serious illness, in her experience, meant death. And she didn’t know if she could face that again.

She could feel that panic start to rise a little. But she wasn’t going to let anyone see that, least of all this stranger. ‘Well, yes, that’s why I’m here. I’m going to fix things.’

‘I hope you’ve got deep pockets and that New York can spare you for a good few months then, because this won’t be an easy fix. Don’t think you can just shove him into a home. He might be prone to confusion, but he’s a stubborn old bugger when he’s lucid, so he’s not going to budge from Duxbury Hall, that’s for sure.’

‘We’ll be fine. Thank you. We’ll manage.’ Somehow. There was his pension, his retirement money and surely he had savings. She just needed to clarify things with Tam and Tilda. ‘You don’t have to worry anymore.’ Or interfere. ‘I’ll work it out.’

‘Well, that’ll make a nice change from your sisters. They couldn’t manage a piss-up in a brewery.’ Shaking his head he glanced at his watch. ‘This hasn’t exactly been the best start to my day.’

Nor mine, to be honest.

But she suspected he wouldn’t be interested in anything else she had to say.

***

‘Okay, Judge. Breakfast’s ready. Finally. Come eat and let’s have a chat, too.’ What she really meant was, let’s do this getting-to-know-you thing. He’d seemed a little more lucid this morning, not truly back to his old pernickety self, but a step closer. So it was time to find out more about him and what he needed.

After the early-morning start, she’d ushered him towards the bathroom and he’d emerged almost clean-shaven, but his hair was still too long and a little matted. He definitely looked a lot more like The Judge of old, just a little as if someone had opened a valve and let a lot of air out. He was too skinny and his clothes hung off him. ‘Let’s eat here, shall we? I don’t think we need to take it into the dining room. That table’s far too big for the two of us. We’d have to shout across to each other.’

Emily put the laden plates down on the kitchen table, making sure he had everything he needed close to hand.

He nudged the food around the plate, peering at it over his half-moon glasses. ‘Okay, yes, my dear. Why not? I like it in here.’

‘Me, too. We always used to eat in the big dining room, but it’s much cosier in here.’ She’d always liked the comfort of the large kitchen with its warm baking smells and washing drying on wooden racks overhead. Unlike anyone else she knew, they’d had a housekeeper, hired after her mum had died to cook and keep the place clean, and Emily had sought solace from the comfort of informality in here. Often she’d sneak in and just sit at the big old table and wish with all her heart that it was her mum kneading the dough or peeling the potatoes.

So many times she’d wished she could rewind the clock and be with her mum right here again. Just once. She’d tell her everything she wished she’d told her then instead of taking her for granted – because in Emily’s youthful, innocent eyes no one would ever be unlucky enough to lose both parents. She’d thought she’d have her mum for ever.

Her throat filled with a rush of sadness – she’d loved her mum; her mother had doted on her until her marriage to The Judge and Emily knew she’d tried after that, too. Their hours in here together had been filled with laughter and shared jokes but they would never have that again.

She swallowed hard and looked round the room. It was a pity that while she’d been in here all those times she’d never actually paid any attention to how to cook anything.

Or how to use the ancient Aga. What the heck was that about? There were no instructions so she’d had to work it out – switching it on was the first problem, then a long, slow wait for it to heat. Now she was starving and had only managed just-about-cooked, but too-hungry-to-care food.

God, she’d taken the New York twenty-four-hour culture for granted. Pizza at four in the morning? No problem. Cheesecake for breakfast? Be our guest. Here, it was a case of rummaging around to see what scraps she could find.

The Judge glanced up at her, pale-blue eyes wide. ‘They let you eat in the dining room? With them? What kind of people were they? Letting the cook eat with the family? I’ve never heard such a thing.’

‘Oh, but I’m not…’ A cook. She pressed her lips together. He’d been brought up in a different time and with different expectations and they’d never breached that gap of class or age. Looking at the aged decor it felt like she was living in an episode of Downton Abbey. Unfortunately, without the intrigue or sex.

‘So what’s this meant to be?’ He looked down at his plate and prodded the eggs with the tip of his knife.

‘Scrambled eggs on toast. It was all I could rustle up from the empty cupboards. We need to go shopping.’

‘Eggs? Are you sure? Aren’t eggs supposed to be yellow? You’re a cook, you say? How can a cook make eggs that are green? Are you in training, is that it? Have they sent me the wrong person?’

Whoa. Not wanting to show she was in any way intimidated by him – even though she still was – she met his straightforward talking with some of her own. ‘The eggs are yellow, Judge. I just added some herbs from the garden for flavour. Try them. Go on, have a mouthful. If you don’t like them we’ll have to go out for breakfast because there isn’t anything else.’

He reluctantly loaded his fork, sniffed, peered, then tentatively ate a mouthful. She waited with bated breath for a reaction. ‘And…?’

‘Edible. Just. Now, tell me where you were working before. How did you come to be here?’

‘Well, I did a few years in London, then I was head-hunted and moved to New York. I’ve been there just over five years, working for quite a prestigious agency called Baddermans.’

‘New York, eh? You like it there?’

‘I love it. It’s… wonderful. It has everything I could ever want.’ She paused. There was something niggling at the back of her mind, like a word she was trying to remember but that was just too far out of reach… a feeling that didn’t quite sit right with her when she thought about New York.

No matter how much she tried to force it she couldn’t make it tangible, real. It was an itch, or… something she couldn’t put her finger on. ‘Anyway, Tamara called and said you needed some help for a few days, so here I am. Is there anything you particularly need help with? Should we make a list or have a chat about your routine?’

‘Someone’s always interfering. Do this, don’t do that, go there. A man isn’t in charge of his own life these days. I don’t need any help, I’m perfectly fine.’ For someone who didn’t like the look of the food he was certainly managing to demolish it. He smacked his lips together. Took a slurp of Earl Grey. Scooped up more eggs. ‘Tastes like soap, but I’ll let you off this time. One more slip-up, though, and I’m afraid we might have to let you go.’

A smile hit her lips. Good Lord, he was curmudgeonly. ‘And yet somehow you’ve managed to eat it all.’

‘Beggars can’t be choosers. A man needs to eat. Now I have to go to work.’ He scraped the chair back and pushed himself upright, uncurling slowly, as if all the bones in his body were creaking awake one by one after a very long hibernation. ‘I’ll be in the library.’

She scooped up his plate and popped it into the dishwasher along with hers, wiped her hands and turned as he was shuffling towards the door. ‘Wait… Work? Are you still working?’ Because, God help the poor client, if there was one. ‘I thought you’d retired. Aren’t you retired?’

‘Actually… I don’t know… Maybe I am. Retired, eh? Already?’ He looked down at his veiny hands as if the answer were there in the curl of arthritic fingers. His shoulders slumped forward. When he looked back at her his eyes were clouded with confusion. ‘What am I meant to do now?’

‘Oh, Judge.’ Surprisingly, her heart contracted at the thought of a once highly respected and very busy man being so utterly lost. Where she’d expected to feel anger she now just felt sorry for him. ‘Hey, we’ll figure it out. Don’t worry.’

‘Good.’ He nodded, and even though his voice was barely audible she caught his words. ‘Thank you.’

‘Right, then. Next thing…’ There wasn’t any point getting emotional about this; it wasn’t going to help. She had to hold herself together and fix things. Write a list. Make a plan. Action. That was what she needed.

No point in sitting around ruminating.

Emily looked round for another job to fill her time. In the cold, early-morning hours after Jacob Taylor, the International Man of Mystery, had gone back home, she’d scrubbed every surface in here clean. Washed their bedding and hung it outside to dry on the saggy line in the walled kitchen garden. Emptied and replaced the buckets under the suspicious-looking ceiling cracks.

Then she’d run around The Hall, opening all the doors and windows to let some fresh air in, and reacquainted herself with the place – which had clearly gone to rack and ruin in the time she’d been away. It needed a complete decoration overhaul and a lot of cosmetic fixing; of broken door handles, cracked wooden frames and blown light bulbs. But now she didn’t feel like staying in the place a second longer, especially if The Judge needed entertaining. ‘You know what, Judge? There’s a wee bit of sunshine out there. Get your coat on, we’re going for a walk.’

He looked grateful to have been given a task. ‘Right you are, then. Give me a minute.’

It was humbling the way he did as he was told and it felt wrong giving him orders, but if she didn’t keep him going he’d just sit and stare into space. In fact, the more he sat the more confused he seemed to get.

So, tempting as it was to just sit in her room, too, and try to get some 3G signal on her phone – she harboured no illusions that 4G might be available in this forgotten part of the twenty-first century – she couldn’t let him stagnate. He needed stimulation and company. ‘We need to buy some groceries and hopefully find somewhere in the Land That Time Forgot that has Wi-Fi.’

Maybe then she could actually reach Tamara or Tilda and start solving all these problems she’d only just discovered she had.