Damage

Damage

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They said he was a rock star. They said he was an Arab oil sheik, or a Russian arms dealer. Or maybe a footballer. They said he was all kinds of things but in truth nobody in the village knew much about the enigmatic stranger who had moved into the Hall.

Holly Colcroft saw him sometimes, out walking in the manicured grounds of his estate with a great big lolloping red setter. The man had chestnut hair like his dog, and he was tall and slim and liked to wear black jeans and a tweed coat that came down to his thighs. He walked with a slight limp – sometimes with a stick – and that made her think of him as older than he probably was. From a distance, she put him in his mid to late thirties.

He’d moved to the village that summer. Kept himself to himself, apart from when he appeared occasionally with his dog.

And that was all she knew of him, then. A lonely man with a limp and a big dog. He could have been anybody.

§

“Hey, Dad,” she called from the front doorway. “I’m heading up to the Hall to work. Probably all afternoon, okay? Do you need anything?”

“No, no, love. I’ll be fine.” Her father was in his armchair, reading the
Times
, his glasses propped right on the tip of his nose, old before his years.

Holly headed out into the chill autumn air. It was her favorite time of year, something about the crispness and the colors, and the sense of letting out a deep breath you’ve been holding in all summer.

She’d taken the call only a few minutes earlier. “Hey, Holly. You free this afternoon?”

It was Karen’s voice, always a welcome sound; apart from anything else, it usually meant there was some work in the offing. Much as Holly liked this time of year, it was also the time when the tourist season started to ease off and so work would get thinner on the ground. Holly needed to take all the jobs she could get right now.

Things hadn’t been easy since her mother had died three years ago – just around the time her father’s independent department store was finally going out of business. The store had been in the family since 1923, and now Holly and her father were reduced to living in a tiny cottage rented from the Estate, scraping around from week to week to find the rent and make ends meet.

Holly’s cousin Karen ran a small cleaning service, looking after holiday lets and local businesses and, other than occasional bar work and waitressing, this was the main source of Holly’s income. “Can you make it up to the Hall pronto?” Karen had asked. “Apparently they had a big party last night and there’s a bit of a mess left over.”

“Sure, sure,” Holly had said. “Who should I ask for?”

§

“Mr Blunt?”

She didn’t think it was, but she couldn’t be sure. She’d only ever seen him from the distance.

The guy looked too young, and his hair a shade too dark.

“Eh? No, no. Not me. I’m just working here.” He stepped back from the door and ushered Holly inside. “Come on in. You’ll find him out back with Alfie.”

She stepped through the door and then paused. She’d never been inside the Hall before. The entrance lobby was high, with a domed ceiling, and a sweeping, curved staircase led up to a mezzanine level lined with paintings that were all geometrical blocks of color and random paint spatters. The place had clearly been decorated and furnished by someone with a refined taste, but...

...on every available surface there were empty bottles, some standing, some on their sides. Beer bottles, wine, champagne, spirits. Plates with the debris of a buffet; scattered cutlery; food and drink spilled and smeared; muddy footprints across the polished wood floor. Plants were toppled, spewing compost across the floor, and over on the righthand wall one painting was hanging at an improbable angle. Who has a party like this on a Sunday night? Unless, of course, the party had lasted all weekend.

Holly almost turned and went home right then. It would take her a week to clear this up, let alone the rest of the Hall, too.

But she needed the cash, and the bigger the mess the longer she’d be needed, and the longer she’d be paid for.

The guy who had let her in had vanished into the depths of the Hall, so she made her way towards the back, finding a heavy door that opened onto a hallway. Suddenly everything was dark and cramped – a servants’ space, she guessed. Sure enough, she came to a kitchen, and from there she found a door that led out into a small, paved courtyard.

The sunlight was suddenly dazzling as she stepped out, and then as her eyes adjusted she found a path that led around a corner of the building.

He was there, in the kitchen garden, leaning over a row of broad beans, off in a world of his own.

Holly looked around, but he was alone, and just then he glanced up and saw her.

“Mr Blunt?” she said, stepping forward, hand outstretched. “I’m Holly Colcroft. I’ve come to help clear up. Karen Cooper sent me?” With each sentence she felt less certain, so that she finished on a questioning note.

Blunt stared at her, his head tipped slightly to one side. Even close up, it was hard to put an age to him. He was tall and slim, and he clearly looked after himself. His face was smooth but somehow craggy and lived in at the same time, and there was not even a hint of silver in his hair. And those eyes... Eyes that were pale gray and somehow loaded with an incredible sadness.

He nodded, finally, as if snapping out of a reverie. “Yes, that’s right,” he said, ignoring her proffered hand. “Nicholas Blunt. Yes. Cleaning. That’s right.” His voice was deep, slightly gravelly, with a faint northern accent.

Just then there was a thundering of feet on the mud and a big bundle of red setter erupted from behind a hedge, skidding to a U-turn by Blunt’s feet and then dashing off again.

“Ah,” said Holly. “Alfie?” She’d thought at first that Alfie must be a person, a child, perhaps.

Blunt nodded.

There was something about the man, the way he scrutinized her, the slightly aloof manner, as if he hadn’t really wanted to be disturbed... something a little hostile, territorial.

She made herself dismiss her unease. There was no rule that she had to like the people whose mess she cleared up.

“Looks like I’ll have my work cut out,” she said, forcing a lightness into her tone.

“Eh? Oh no,” he said, glancing towards the house. “Not all that shit.”

Holly hadn’t had a particularly sheltered up-bringing, but still she was a bit taken aback at Blunt’s language, the casual crudity in front of a young woman he’d only just met.

“Not the party,” he continued. “I have people for that. It comes as a package: the caterers, the staff, the entertainment, the clearing up afterwards. Hell, for all I know they even supply half the guests... so many strangers at these things nowadays, not that I really care. I like it, you know? I like people to enjoy themselves.”

He didn’t exactly have the expression of someone intent on spreading joy to all and sundry, but Holly let that pass.

Just then, Alfie returned, ears flapping as he ran. For a few seconds he scampered around Mr Blunt’s feet and then he appeared to notice Holly for the first time. Suddenly alert, he stopped in his tracks, looked at her and then jumped up, muddy paws on her sweater, wet nose and tongue thrusting toward her face.

She laughed and patted him and backed off, all at the same time, just as Blunt snapped “
Alfie
,” at the dog and took a step towards them.

“It’s fine,” Holly said. “Really. It’s fine.”

Blunt didn’t look as if he believed her, but he said nothing, and finally it was Holly who broke the awkward silence. “So,” she said, “if it’s not the party, then...?”

§

Blunt’s living quarters were in the east wing of the Hall. It seemed odd to have bought somewhere like this, the largest home by far in the village, and yet only live in what was little more than a bachelor pad.

When Holly followed him back into the Hall, the clean-up team had reached the entrance lobby. The place looked like a crime scene, as a squadron of cleaners in white overalls meticulously cleared and cleaned and polished in almost forensic detail.

She followed Blunt up that sweeping staircase and along a passage to a locked door that led into his private quarters. Beyond the door there was a small lobby area with more doors opening off it.

“There’s a bedroom – could do with fresh bedding; you’ll find it, well,
somewhere
– and a living room, a bathroom, a kitchen. Just don’t touch the study, okay? I don’t like my work-space disturbed. In fact, I’ll be in there with my music on, okay?”

“Is your usual cleaner away?” Holly asked brightly, determined not to let his mood drag her down. She guessed he was hung over; she didn’t like to think that he might always be like this.

“No,” he said. “I fired the bitch for being too damned nosy, okay?”

“I...” She swallowed. She wasn’t going to be intimidated. “So does that mean this might be a regular opportunity, then?”

He paused, eyeing her, and then shrugged and turned away, leaving her in the lobby.

She tried the first door, which turned out to lead on to the living room. Unlike the rest of the Hall, this room was furnished with what looked like antiques: lots of heavy, dark furniture and oil paintings in big, ornate frames. There was an oriental theme to it, too, with dried grasses and peacock feathers in Chinese vases, and delicate silk prints of storks and stylized pine trees and mountains. She wondered if here before her was Nicholas Blunt’s story, or if it was simply the choice of an interior designer charged with a casual “Make it look interesting. And make it look
old
.”

The place wasn’t in a bad state at all. Clearly the party had been kept away from Blunt’s private rooms. Holly busied herself with tidying, vacuuming and polishing, a bit of Ella Fitzgerald playing on her iPod. At one point she paused by the window and looked out. There were vans pulled up to take away the remains of the party. Out in the grounds, an old man rode back and forth on a mower, cutting the grass in neat strips of green. So many people... it must cost a fortune to look after this place.

Back out in the lobby, she tried the next door and it opened into a darkened room, blinds pulled closed and the only light coming from a pair of widescreen computer monitors playing a screensaver of abstract, animated shapes.

Books lined the walls, with a selection of exotic arts and crafts sharing the shelf-space: African masks, pots and vases, little drums, figures carved from wood and stone.

“I’m sorry about earlier.”

She jumped. She hadn’t seen him there, stretched out on a chaise longue beyond the desk, heavy earphones now pulled down around his neck, away from his ears.

The study. He’d said not to disturb the study... “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize this was–”

“No worries, no worries,” he said, hands held up to placate her. “I’ve a bark worse than Alfie today.”

“It’s fine,” said Holly. “Really it is.”

“About what you said,” he went on. “Yes, I need to sort out something longer term. I’ve seen you around the place, heard good things. I asked Mrs Cooper for you specifically. It’d be good if we could come to some kind of arrangement. This place takes a lot of upkeep.”

He was trying to be nice, she realized, but it didn’t come across that way. He’d ‘seen her about’, he’d asked for her ‘specifically’, he wanted ‘some kind of arrangement’... Creepy.

She smiled, and said, “That’d be good, thanks.” The money. Nobody cleaned up other people’s mess for the fun of it, after all. Just think of the money.

“Your old man,” Blunt said now. “He had Colcroft’s, didn’t he?”

She nodded.

“Nice old place. We used to visit down here when I was a lad. Family holidays in the Cotswolds. Used to stay in a caravan up by Stow-on-the-Wold every Whitsun half-term holiday.”

It was hard to picture Nicholas Blunt staying in a caravan.

“I remember Colcroft’s, all right,” he continued. “Cream and jam scones in the café, flying saucers and Refreshers from the sweet counter. So why’d it close down, then?”

“The place just couldn’t keep up with the big boys,” said Holly.

They didn’t really talk about the shop any more. Her father associated its closure with the death of Holly’s mother, although there was no actual connection other than cruel timing. Talk of the shop was like opening an old wound for him.

“It was in the family for almost a century, but I guess there’s no space for a family department store that does a bit of everything these days. Debenhams and Primark out-did us on clothes. Tesco and Sainsbury beat us on the food. B&Q on hardware, Ikea on furniture.”

“Shame,” said Blunt. “Seems wrong that a nobody like me can get a place like this and someone like your old man can lose everything... Me: I’m just an engineer. I have a company that makes kit for laboratories – optics and precision engineering. I hardly see the place now, yet still they keep on paying me... Sorry: that’s crass of me again. Sounded like I’m bragging. I’m not, really I’m not. You know what my firm’s called? BI Incorporated. Short for Blunt Instruments. Some people say the name fits.”