Finding Dreams, page 12
I get the feeling that he’s holding something back. He twists the end of his cane into a groove on the floor and seems to be debating with himself – historian, custodian, local busybody. But I never know which one wins out, because just then, the door opens with a disagreeable screech. An elderly woman comes inside.
‘Harold?’ She peers into the room squinting over half-moon trifocals.
‘I’m sorry, Miss,’ the old man says to me. ‘Mrs Carter-Smith is here for the bell.’ He taps the tip of his cane on the old fire bell in the centre of the room. It makes a tinny, hollow sound that in no way befits its brave history. ‘It’s going on special exhibition over at the Guildhall. I’m afraid I’ll have to close up for an hour or so to get it sorted.’
He ambles over to the woman.
‘OK…’ I say, taking the hint. I take out my phone and snap a quick picture of the display case. Though, in truth, I’m more interested in what the old man knows – and is clearly reluctant to tell me – about Phillipa King and the house’s more recent history.
‘Thank you,’ I say, as I make my way out. ‘It’s been enlightening.’
‘Happy to oblige.’
‘I may come back again another day to take a look at those archives – if that’s OK. I see that there’s a lot I don’t know.’
‘You do that,’ he replies. But I sense a coolness in his voice as he closes the door behind me and flips the sign from open to closed. I leave the museum with the distinct impression that the elderly curator has been saved by the bell.
- V -
The Lady’s Secret by Phillipa King
Victoria’s hands turned hard and rough. She’d given her name as ‘Tilly’ on that first grey morning, and been put to work before dawn carrying wood up and downstairs for fires that were never lit, washing the linen with lye soap, and scrubbing the kitchen floors and the pantry clean of mice droppings. Within a week, her spirit was bowed from exhaustion; from the bone-chilling cold, the thin soup with vegetables not fit for pigs. Within a fortnight, she packed her trunk in the middle of the night, her hands shaking from tiredness. Anything, anywhere, had to be better than this. Would Tom take her back after she’d run away? Her father after she’d stolen his money?
Victoria hung her head. In her heart she knew the best solution – the only option left. The master of the house – a man she hadn’t seen since her arrival, but was described by the other servants as brooding and cruel – would surely have to pay for her burial service. Tom and her father would never know that she’d been here at all, and that she’d taken the ultimate step to escape from a life that was unendurable.
She left her mother’s locket in the trunk at the foot of the bed – she wouldn’t be needing it where she was going. She put her dressing gown on over her thin nightgown and crept down the back stairs and through the door at the back. The house was silent and tomb-like as she walked across the lawn that sloped gently down to the river’s edge. The cold lacerated her skin, her bare feet wet from the frost-covered grass. Unconsciously, she put her hand on her belly. Where a life had once taken hold and started to grow, now there was only a sharp ache and emptiness. But soon it wouldn’t matter anymore. Soon, she would feel nothing…
Her body trembled as she stepped into the shallow water at the bank, the mud oozing between her toes. In the distance an owl hooted, and there was the sound of a splash. She turned to look upstream. A faint light glowed on the water at the bend in the river. The splashes grew rhythmic. Oars – a boat. Someone was coming.
She took a few tentative steps further into the river until she could feel the current sweeping against her legs. If she didn’t act soon, it would be too late. She willed herself to keep walking as her body screamed from the cold and her heart raced on, desperate to keep beating. The boat was coming closer now, drifting in her direction. She had to act… she had to…
Victoria jumped. The dark freezing water covered her head like a shroud.
Chapter 14
When I return home from the museum, there are three cars in the drive. Theo didn’t tell me what time to expect the set builders, so it’s just as well I’d given him the code to the key box. Before getting out of the car, I smooth my hair and put on lip gloss, then feel silly for doing it.
Inside, the house is a flurry of activity. There are two men and a woman in the great hall, surveying, discussing, and measuring up, all overseen by the monolithic presence of Connie, who’s sitting on the sofa, while next to her, Simon folds the laundry. Jammie is there too – looking distinctly wary with all the strangers in her house. Theo’s already let me know that for health and safety reasons, she’ll have to stay locked up in her dog run while the filming is going on. So far, however, the crew members I’ve met seem to like having her around.
‘Hi,’ I greet them all, feeling excited that it’s really happening. I pat Jammie reassuringly on the head.
‘Hello, Mrs Greene,’ one of the men says to me. ‘Lovely house.’
‘Thanks.’ I grin. ‘And you can call me Lizzie.’
‘Hmmf,’ Connie grunts in my direction. ‘When’s the last time you had the washer looked at – it’s on its last legs.’
‘Is it?’ I don’t even let this bother me. The washing machine is old and pernickety, just like the house. But if Connie’s bothered, then she’s welcome to take their stuff to the cleaners. I walk past her to the kitchen, and practically bump into Theo, who’s carrying a tray of steaming mugs full of tea.
‘Oh hi, Lizzie,’ he says, looking a tiny bit embarrassed. For a second, I worry that he’s having second thoughts about his message: PS – I hope you will be there. ‘Hope it’s OK, but I used your kettle.’
I smile at him. ‘It’s fine.’ I don’t point out that he’s also using my tray, mugs and teabags. The contract gives the film crew access to the entire premises, but the use of personal property is to be strictly by arrangement. Still, until the main work gets underway and the bulk of the crew arrives with their food tents and trailers, I’ve stocked up on tea, Sainsbury’s Basics mugs, and chocolate digestive biscuits. I’m pleased to see that my efforts are contributing to the project in some small way. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Great.’ He grins as his eyes brush mine. ‘Let me hand these out and I’ll make you one too.’
‘Thanks. It’s black with one sugar.’ I feel the same frisson of pleasure as I did the other night. It’s been a long time since a man other than Simon has offered to make me tea or anything else. But it’s more than that. Theo’s very nice, and attractive in an unassuming way. I know he’s probably a few years younger than me – probably no more than thirty-five – and I know nothing whatsoever about him other than that he’s from Boston and a fan of the Red Sox (which I think is a baseball team). But I feel something when I’m around him. An awareness of another person – of a man – that I didn’t think I’d ever be able – or willing – to feel again.
I tidy up the kitchen a little, listening to snippets of conversation in the adjacent hall: Connie asking Theo something about Dominic Kennedy; Simon conferring with the crew about removing the radiators. It’s all so alien and fascinating. All the crew seem focused and professional, but there’s a buzz too, of people genuinely excited about doing their bit on the film. It’s a very different working environment from a law firm.
Theo comes back into the kitchen carrying the empty tray. ‘It’s a full-time job keeping up with the teas and coffees,’ he says, setting down the tray.
‘I’m happy to help out,’ I say.
His smile waivers for a second, and I worry that I’ve overstepped the mark. Once things get going, the kids and I will need to stay out of the way. We’re supposed to move to the two guest bedrooms above the kitchen, accessible by the back stairs. For us it will be like staying in a hotel – without the cleaning service, of course. And hopefully, we’ll be less likely to get underfoot.
‘I mean, just until things ramp up,’ I clarify. ‘Then, we’ll try not to get in the way.’
‘That might be difficult.’ Theo refills the kettle, switches it on, and gets out two more mugs. ‘It will be very chaotic. There’s no avoiding it.’
‘I understand.’
‘It’s great that you’re so keen on the project, Lizzie. That really helps.’ The kettle boils and switches off. He makes the tea and brings the mugs to the table.
‘And what about you?’ I say as soon as he’s seated. ‘Now that you’ve found the location, are you off to the next thing?’ I try not to seem too interested in his answer. The film project will go on for several months. It would be nice if Theo was around to keep me company while I’m staying out of the way. And then, who knows…
‘Well actually, I have some exciting news.’ He leans forward. ‘I’m going to be working with Phillipa when she’s here on set.’
‘Phillipa King? Really?’
‘Yes.’ He puts a teaspoon of sugar in my tea, and three in his. ‘I met her when the project first came to Rabbit-N-Hat. She wrote the screenplay herself – which is unusual these days. But it means that she’ll be here once the filming begins. And she needs an assistant. I applied for the job – within the film company, of course – and she chose me.’
‘That sounds… good.’ I’m chuffed that Theo’s going to be here on set, but I can’t ignore a tiny stab of alarm at the news that Phillipa King will be here too. It’s one thing to have ‘friends in high places’ and quite another thing to meet them.
‘For me, it’s perfect. She really is a first-rate writer.’
‘Yes, she is.’ I feel like a ventriloquist’s dummy allowing him to put words in my mouth. Admittedly, I’m enjoying The Lady’s Secret, but I’m not quite sure I’d classify Phillipa King as a ‘first-rate’ writer.
Theo continues to wax lyrical about Phillipa King. My tea suddenly tastes too sweet, and I wish I’d had milk instead of sugar. I stand up and take my mug to the sink.
‘I understand she has a connection with the house,’ I say, when he stops for a breath. ‘She spent a summer here, or something?’
He considers my question. ‘I’m not sure, to be honest. I think someone knew about this area and mentioned it to Michelle when we first started the location search. But I don’t know the details.’
‘The house in the book does bear a remarkable similarity, don’t you think?’ I press. ‘I haven’t finished the whole thing yet, but so far, it’s like she’s describing this house. I went to the local museum and learned some of the history. Apparently there was a smuggler who lived here in 1790, and his wife disappeared under mysterious circumstances. They were called Zachary and Veronica Jones. I assume that story must have been one of her inspirations for the book?’
‘Phillipa has many influences,’ he says. He proceeds to give me a long litany of them – from a pub in Dorking with smuggling tunnels underneath, to the novels of Daphne du Maurier, to the latest TV series of Poldark.
‘Very interesting,’ I say.
He catches the tone in my voice. ‘Sorry,’ he says, his face flushing a little. ‘Didn’t mean to go on like that. It’s just exciting to be working with a famous writer. But what about you? Your mother-in-law says that you’ve got a new job?’
‘Oh that.’ I wave a hand dismissively, then wish I hadn’t. Not that I’m trying to compete with Phillipa King, but if I was, I should try to make myself sound interesting. ‘I’m a lawyer,’ I say. ‘I took a few years out, and now I’m trying to get back into it. Clients, conference calls, commuting…’ I close my mouth. These things can’t possibly be interesting to someone who works in the glamourous film industry, meeting famous stars, directors, and authors in the course of a normal day.
‘What kind of law do you do?’ Theo asks.
‘Mostly corporate. Mergers, acquisitions, asset sales, that sort of thing.’
‘Sounds interesting,’
I look at him closely, trying to decide whether he’s sincere or just making conversation. I decide that either way, I may as well put my best foot forward. ‘It can be,’ I say. ‘It’s quite fast paced, and some of the companies do interesting things – renewable energy, venture capital, property development. So I like that aspect of it. And the fact that it’s an intellectual challenge.’
‘It must be. I’ve a lot of respect for people who do that kind of work.’
‘Oh,’ I say, pleasantly surprised. ‘It’s been good getting back into it. Things were really hard after Dave died. The children miss him a lot – obviously.’ I give in to the strong urge to confide in him. ‘But unfortunately, he also left a lot of debts – messes I had to clean up. It’s been a very stressful time, and I guess I kind of shut myself off from everyone. That’s why this project is a godsend, really—’
‘Theo?’ The woman set designer comes into the kitchen carrying the empty mugs. She sets them down in the sink. ‘We’re going out back now to look at the lake shore.’
‘Sure,’ Theo says, at the same time that I say, ‘Fine’. I look down in embarrassment. Not being in charge of things at my own home, even temporarily, will take some getting used to.
‘Sorry,’ I mutter. I go to the sink to do the washing-up.
‘Hey, don’t worry about it.’ Theo brings his cup over to me. I can feel him standing there a moment longer, and a fraction of inch closer, than he might strictly need to. ‘And, in fact, I’d better be going. I’ve got to get back to London. It would be good to avoid the traffic.’
‘Yes, it is getting on.’ I wonder fleetingly if he’ll be seeing Phillipa King.
‘But maybe one of these evenings, Lizzie, we can grab dinner at a pub.’
I turn to face him. His smile gives nothing away and I’m not absolutely sure I should be reading anything into the invitation. Except, a part of me – the lion’s share, actually – wants to read something into it.
My momentary silence seems to fluster him. That in itself, makes up my mind.
‘I’d like that.’ I glance sideways at him, asking myself the ‘would I? wouldn’t I?’ question if he was a man I passed on the street. I would, I decide. ‘That would be really good.’
‘OK, I’ve got your number. And thanks for the tea.’ At the last second, he leans in conspiratorially. ‘Though just between you and me, I prefer coffee.’
‘Just between you and me, I do too,’ I say, laughing. ‘I must stock up on some for next time.’
‘Great.’ He gives me a wave and then he’s gone back to the great hall where I hear him talking to the set people. Then, the sound of voices and footsteps recedes, and a door opens and closes. I look around my kitchen – the familiar chaos and disorder – the background details of dark wood panelling and carved stone fireplace – and smile to myself.
I finish washing the mugs and put them back in the cupboard, tidy up the stray toys and books that have somehow found their way in here, and sweep the floor. When I finally leave the house to pick the kids up from school, I feel a strange lightness inside me, like I’m a butterfly that’s been trapped inside a jar, and someone has taken the lid off and shaken me out into the world again. And for a moment, I experience that magical something I never thought I’d be capable of feeling again.
I feel happy.
- VI -
The Lady’s Secret by Phillipa King
Her hair felt like it was being ripped from her scalp as the hand grabbed it and pulled her upwards.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ The deep male voice rumbled in her stomach like thunder. She blinked the icy water from her eyes. She knew she should struggle away – continue on with her fatal quest. But as the strong arms lifted her waterlogged body into the boat, she lacked the energy to struggle.
‘I…’ Surely it was a trick of the pale moon shining on the water, but the man’s eyes almost seemed to glow a deep sapphire as he stared into hers, hard and accusing.
‘We must make haste, Will,’ another voice said from the stern of the boat. ‘They were only minutes behind us.’
Victoria tried to look towards the second voice, but the man’s dark hooded cloak made him fade into the blackness beyond. Only the whites of his eyes caught the dim light.
‘No,’ said the deep voice. ‘We must get her to shore. The cold will kill her otherwise.’
‘That must have been her intent,’ the second man reasoned.
‘No. Get to shore and tie up the boat. Signal to the others. It’s all off for tonight.’
‘But…’
‘Damn it, Sambrooke, do as I say.’
The second man didn’t respond, but the boat began to creep towards the shore.
Victoria drifted in and out of consciousness until at last, strong arms lifted her, and carried her up towards the place she had been so eager to escape. Idyllwild Manor.
The Master, it seemed, had returned.
Chapter 15
I jolt awake, my forehead damp with sweat. Above my head, the beads of the dreamcatcher dance and twinkle in the sliver of moonlight piercing through the gap in the curtains. I throw off the duvet and jump to my feet. Before I went to sleep, I’d been reading the scene where Victoria Easterbrook tries to kill herself by walking into the river, and is pulled out by the master, William Clarke. But that wasn’t what I had dreamed about…
The silence seems almost unnatural. I go through the bathroom to check on Jack. His breathing whuffles in deep sleep. I brush the hair off his face. He stirs only enough to get the hand of his plush Spiderman in his mouth and suck it like a baby. My heartbeat finally begins to slow. I go out of his room and down the hall to Katie’s room. She’s snoring loudly, gripping her old teddy and her Bratz mermaid doll. The dog is sprawled at the end of the bed, snoring too. My heart aches thinking of my daughter’s internal struggle between remaining a child and becoming a young woman. I have a strong urge to lie down beside her and hold her in my arms. But the best thing for her right now is just to let her sleep.
