Читать книгу The Stranger in Our Home - Sophie Draper - Страница 11

It was the next day, after another night on the sofa. I was perched on a stool in the kitchen, my hand sweeping across the paper, sketching with a light, confident motion the wings of a black swan. I’d been fired up by that first story, eager to get started on the commission in between clearing the house. As the image grew, my heart warmed to him, my swan prince, his eyes soft and human.

There followed a series of pictures, paper floating frantically to the ground as one sheet after another was rejected. I couldn’t capture him properly. The feathers were too bold, the angle of his wing too taut. I couldn’t fathom his expression. Was it fear? Was it joy? Was he wilful, wild and free? The lines had to be perfect, so pleasing to the eye that I couldn’t stop looking at it. I wasn’t there yet. Then at last, I had it. This, the youngest prince, my prince, was sweet and innocent, untouched by the human world, the purity of his black feathers a mirror to his sinless soul. Now I was happy, I stopped. The secret to a good picture is to know when to stop.

My fingers ached. I tipped off the stool and pulled on a coat, deciding to head down to the village. Or maybe I would go into Ashbourne. There were tea shops there and more people. I craved human contact, albeit the impersonal kind.

As my car swung out from the bottom of the drive, another car appeared behind me. It was the jeep again, I recognised the driver, the same impatient craggy-faced thirty-something who’d beeped at me before. He seemed content enough this time, driving behind me, a large dog hanging out of the front passenger window despite the cold. When we got to the village, the road widened and he accelerated past.

Larkstone was quiet. The cottages that lined the road were built with solid stone, curtains drawn, blinds lowered, as if the whole village was closed to me. The Co-op shop window was full of local adverts and Christmas-cracker boxes piled high in a stack, but the doors were locked, the lights were out and no one stirred on the street. Only the butcher’s lights were on. Tinsel was strung across the window and a pheasant, hanging from its neck, bumped against the glass. A figure moved away from the door and a blind dropped into place.

I decided Ashbourne was definitely a better bet.

I managed to nab a space in the market square car park and ambled down the hill to the main street. It had a pleasant buzz to it, fairy lights in every shop, traffic passing slowly under the street decorations. I didn’t really have a purpose. I wanted to soak in the atmosphere and the voices around me.

There were various gift shops. I thought, why not buy something for Steph for Christmas this year? But what did you buy for someone who could afford to waive a substantial inheritance? Perfume? A silk scarf? Those seemed eminently suitable for Steph, but a little boring. I wanted to give something more personal, something that I’d taken my time over, that spoke to us both, even after all these years of silence between us. One of my pictures, I thought. She’d said how much she liked them. I’d give her one of my pictures, something I’d painted especially for her.

There was an artists’ supply shop on St John Street and I went inside. I wanted paper the right size to fit into a table-top picture frame. The shop was a tiny space, pungent with the smell of oil paint and varnish. I lingered awhile, appalled at the prices – I usually bought my supplies on the internet. I selected a pad of thick watercolour paper, adding a pack of pencils, paid for them and left. Back out into the cold air and the damp.

I couldn’t have been looking where I was going. I ricocheted off a passing man.

‘I … I’m so sorry!’ I cried. My pad had landed on the pavement and the pencils were rolling out of their box. ‘Damn!’

‘Fucking bitch, don’t you look where you’re going?’

I recoiled from the man’s language, the aggression in his face. He stepped towards me, a huge athletic man with thick blond hair, his face right against mine. His hands were grasping my shoulders as if he were about to shake me. I felt fear ripple down my spine.

‘I … that is …’

‘Leave the lady alone, Angus!’

Another man appeared, forcing his way in front of me, knocking back the ugly hands from where they gripped my shoulders.

‘You don’t want to get physical now, do you?’ he said.

He had his back to me, this new man. He was tall too, and brown-haired. At his feet was a large dog. I stared in dismay; it was the one from the jeep. It sat on the pavement, tongue hanging out, panting, quite relaxed. It was more than how I felt. The dog watched its master and I watched the two men. I was shaking, desperate to rub off the feel of those hands on my shoulders.

The animal rose up onto its feet, a low growl in its throat. The blond man’s posture shifted, aggression distorting his face.

‘She’s a fucking stupid—’ said Angus.

I backed up, ready to run.

‘Well that may be,’ interrupted my rescuer, ‘but not worth getting an assault charge for, eh?’

How dare he, I thought. What was the point of coming to my aid if he then colluded with this oaf to insult me? I felt my anger rise, my courage re-grouping. I bristled behind him.

Angus, whoever he was, took a moment to think about it. There was an uncomfortable standoff. Then he seemed to concede, nodding to the stranger, kicking my block of paper as he marched off. The dog sat on its haunches and cocked its head to look at me.

I reached down for my things, even more annoyed when I considered how much they’d cost. The paper was marked, the pencil leads broken; I wished I’d never come out. The man looked at me from on high. Was that pity or exasperation on his face? It didn’t help.

‘What are you staring at?’ I said ungraciously.

‘Nothing at all,’ he said. ‘Here, let me.’

He bent down to pick up a stray pencil.

‘I’ve got it … thanks …’

No thanks. I tucked the pad under my arm, snatching the pencil from his hand and turning aside, refusing to look at him. I walked away, side-stepping the dog, picking up speed with the urgency of embarrassment.

But the man followed me. He caught up, walking alongside without a word. I tried to walk faster, but he kept pace. I stopped.

‘What do you want?’ I said.

‘I want to know that you’re okay.’

‘I’m okay, now go away.’ I bit my lip at my rudeness.

‘You’re staying at Elizabeth Crowther’s old house, aren’t you?’

‘What’s that got to do with you? You know her?’ That second sentence was a mistake, an invitation for him to engage.

‘Knew her, yes.’

I nodded, acknowledging the correction. But you weren’t at the funeral, I thought. At least, I didn’t remember seeing him there.

‘We were neighbours. Let me introduce myself. I’m Craig. And you must be Elizabeth’s daughter, Caroline?’ He held out a hand.

I ignored it.

‘I was her stepdaughter, and it’s Caro, actually.’

I’d always hated Caroline, Elizabeth had called me that. I started walking again.

‘I live at Lavender Cottage, it’s further up the lane, past your drive.’

So that explained why he’d appeared to follow me the first night. I didn’t reply.

‘Look, that guy was pretty nasty, back there—’

‘Who was he?’ I saw his flash of irritation at my interruption.

‘Angus McCready.’ He gave a sigh. ‘Let me make it up to you. Let me buy you a cup of coffee. There,’ he pointed to a coffee shop on the other side of the road, all big chunky wooden tables and artsy ironwork chairs.

‘Thanks, I appreciate your help, really, but my parking’s about to run out.’

A white lie.

He looked taken aback. Maybe he wasn’t used to being blown off by a girl. He was, after all, quite good-looking.

‘No problem,’ he said. He stopped walking. ‘Drive carefully!’

His words were softly ironic. But I wasn’t listening, I was already heading back up the hill to my car.

The drive home seemed painfully long, though in reality, speeding, it must have been no more than fifteen minutes. The lane was overhung with trees, the headlamps of my car picking up the droplets of water clinging to the roadside grass. I kept looking in the rear-view mirror, expecting to see the jeep with its dog hanging out of the window. But the road was empty and I noticed the remains of the dead sheep near the house had gone.

I couldn’t wait to get inside. I shoved the key in the lock, leaning against the door as it clicked shut. I turned around holding out one hand, fingers straight but trembling. I snapped the chain into place on the door, reaching up to bolt it top and bottom. Only then did I draw breath.

Okay, there were plenty of men like Angus, bullying creeps who couldn’t even show a bit of respect for a stranger, let alone offer up some sympathy for a brief moment of clumsiness. But since I’d dumped Paul, I’d been reluctant to admit even to myself how I felt about men.

Paul had been a nice guy, too nice. At the beginning. Not that nice wasn’t good – I really wasn’t into the exciting, dangerous type – safe was good, safe was safe. I’d barely dated anyone for longer than a week until Paul. As time went by, I was drawn into his friendship. We met for dinner, we went to the theatre, we headed out of London for day trips to Brighton and the seaside town of Southwold. Then he asked me to spend the weekend with him in Bath. I knew what that meant. Here was someone that wanted me, we had a future, didn’t we? I’d never thought that might happen, I wasn’t the glamorous type, the kind of woman most men went for. I didn’t see what was coming.

‘Limpy, lumpy Caroline!’

The words punched into my brain from nowhere and I sucked in my breath. A little boy voice – another memory from school? Where had that come from? I leaned my head against the front door of the house, feeling the wind outside battering against the wood, roaring through the gap at my feet, the iron bolt cold beneath my fingers.

I made for the kitchen. With unsteady hands I reached for a bottle of wine skulking in a corner of the worktop. I poured it out into a mug and sat down.

I didn’t normally drink, perhaps the odd glass in front of the TV once I’d finished work. The liquid seemed to move in the middle, a regular ripple, circling out from the centre of the mug. It shone under the bright kitchen lights, my heartbeat reflected in the liquid, the beat transferring from hand to drink.

I lifted the mug to my lips and drank it down in one swift, grateful, needy gulp.