Life Class (18 page)

‘We thought she was a witch,’ Dory said, not answering the implied question. ‘She must be ancient now. She seemed old enough then.’

‘She’s got to be in her late eighties … maybe ninety or more.’

‘It must be hard for her, up on the hill here.’

‘She’s not an invalid, but getting frailer. Up to a year ago she used to drive. Her old mini is over the other side of the cottage, un-garaged, of course, completely seized up with a variety of small mammals nesting in it, I expect.’

‘Is there a bus?’

‘The nearest bus route is along the valley. Easy enough for …’ He paused. ‘Easy if you’re young and fit, but too far for Grace. If she’s determined to go somewhere, she’s perfectly capable of ringing a taxi.’

‘But what about support systems? Friends, relatives?’

‘No relatives apart from a nephew in New Zealand. And there don’t appear to be many friends left.’

‘Who does she turn to?’ Dory suspected she already knew. ‘How does she cope?’

‘She won’t hear of involving social services. The idea of going into sheltered accommodation terrifies her. She won’t even visit the doctor in case he sends her to hospital. Once there she thinks she’ll never come out. She’s a stalwart of the Roman Catholic Church and attends the services at St Mary’s now and then. But mostly she just summons the priest.’

‘That’s a good trick. If you can’t get to church, bring the church to you.’

‘Maybe he thinks he’ll be rewarded for his efforts,’ Stefan said with narrowed eyes, blowing out a cloud of smoke. ‘The house is tiny but there’s an acre or more of garden attached to it. A bequest to the church would be worth having, I imagine. Of course, Grace claims never to ask for help, but she somehow gets people to run around after her. My father, when he was up to it, and now me. So I do her shopping and fix the leaks because he did. She doesn’t appear to see my help as a measure of her dependency. God knows how she’ll manage when I’ve gone.’ He stopped speaking, took a last drag on the cigarette before dropping it and grinding the stub under his heel. ‘Not doing a very good job of selling the place, am I? I’d never make an estate agent.’

Dory turned and looked away from the house to the view, hazy now with the amber sun dropping behind it. This place is magical, she thought. She glanced back at him and found he was looking at her. She smiled.

‘This conversation has been a bit like a confessional,’ he said ruefully. ‘You know all about me, but I still know very little about you. Not even if you like my house enough to make an offer.’

Now was the moment to make her confession, to say, I’m sorry, it really is too big for me. The words that emerged from her mouth kept the fantasy alive. ‘I need to think about it, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, have a good Christmas.’

‘Christmas?’ he looked momentarily baffled. ‘Oh, Christmas,’ he repeated, as if remembering what it was. ‘Yes. I meant to say earlier. Good earrings. Very appropriate.’

‘My Santas!’ Dory exclaimed, clapping her hands over her frivolous earlobes. ‘God! I’d forgotten. There was a chance I’d join Fran and the others for their Christmas lunch, but …’

‘Seeing my house won out. Was it worth it?’

The idea of lingering, of chatting about anything and everything, was a beguiling one. But all he really wanted to know was whether she was serious about Kitesnest House. If she dispelled the illusion, what else was there to talk about? And might she be in danger of treading on the first tenuous shoots of friendship? Did she care?

‘It’s all right, don’t answer that. I’ll see you next … next year!’

‘Of course. And thanks again for catching me.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘He’s a sculptor, did you know? There were some fabulous pieces around the place. A wonderful series of three, in bronze, I think, depicting a falling angel.’

‘This is all seriously strange,’ Fran said. ‘I’d never come across him before so I assumed he was new to the area. Most local artists belong to a co-operative group called ArtSkape. It organises an Open Studios event in the summer.’

‘He’s only been back a year or so because his father needed care.’

‘So, what happened on Friday?’

‘Pure coincidence that he was there. He knew someone was viewing the house but didn’t expect them … me … still to be there. He’d done some shopping for his neighbour, “the mad old bat” we remember.’

‘She’s still alive? She must be ancient.’

‘She is. He took her shopping in to her and then told the estate agent he could go, and that he’d see Mrs Seymour out. But even if he wondered about the name he must have discounted the possibility we were one and the same. I was as big a surprise to him as he was to me. Let alone the childhood connection …’

‘Did you reminisce?’

‘How long ago was it?’ Peter asked.

‘Must be thirty years.’ It was Fran who answered him, but Dory felt her sister’s scrutiny. ‘So? Are you going to make an offer for his house?’

Moments passed and then she sighed. ‘Look, stop worrying. Just for a moment I allowed myself to be excited by the potential of a place like that. But you’re right, it’s far too big.’ Though she made the denial, and truly meant it, she had to acknowledge that something had irrevocably changed. Lingering now in her mind’s eye was the image in her rear-view mirror of Stefan standing beside his beaten-up car. Behind him, in the reflected light of the setting sun, the front of the house had turned apricot, its windows lit a brilliant copper.

‘You can’t fool me. You’re smitten, aren’t you?’ Fran said.

Chapter Seventeen - Stefan

Amongst the junk mail, circulars, and Christmas cards addressed to his deceased father, there was only one business letter on the doormat addressed to him. He turned it over. ‘Murrell Estate Agents’ was printed on the flap. He left the rest of the mail beside the old telephone and stuffed it into his pocket.

‘It’s gone eleven,’ he called, before opening the front door. ‘I’m waiting outside.’ There was a distant grunt.

He went no further than the veranda, but it offered no protection against the cold wind. If he’d stayed indoors, he was in danger of getting impatient. He didn’t want to lose his rag and alienate the boy. He’d given him several calls. If Dom wanted to leave it to the last minute and skip breakfast, it was up to him. He didn’t want to start acting like a father, even if the boy’s behaviour sometimes frustrated him to a pitch of anger that was hard to keep bottled up. In an attempt to distract himself, he stared at the decorative cast iron, noticing how the bright green mould that colonised the grooves picked out its swirls and curlicues. Stefan pulled the letter out of his pocket again. At first, he stared blankly, hardly able to make sense of the words. A dull weight of disappointment began to swell. This wasn’t what he’d expected, or hoped for.

Arriving back at the house, over a week ago, it was apparent that the young man from Murrells had been itching to get off to his next appointment. On being told that the client had been wandering about in the back garden for half an hour, Stefan told the estate agent to go. He would find the client, answer any questions, and see her off the premises.

The woman, who stood looking over to the sunlit common beyond the boundary of the wooded garden, was almost in silhouette. He’d sensed something familiar about her, yet when she turned he was unprepared for the physical shock of recognition that zipped through him. Given the fact he’d been told her surname, it was dim-witted in the extreme not to have made the connection. That it should then transpire she’d been one of the girls who’d blundered in on him that day, years before, made the meeting even more curious.

After the surprise, he’d found her good company; she still had on the Father Christmas earrings she’d been wearing earlier, which amused him. Though they’d talked about nothing significant, Dory seemed understanding and interested, and extremely impressed by the house and barn. And now this! How wrong could you be about someone? Two-faced bitch!

He stuffed the letter from Murrells, envelope and all, back in his pocket without looking at it again. Of course he’d known that after a survey and a search he should expect there to be some negotiation on the asking price – but that much? It was derisory. It felt like she was laughing at him. He’d rather take the house off the market and raise a mortgage on it himself. He didn’t care where he lived. As time went on he hated the house less, surely there’d come a moment when he would achieve indifference. He might just as well live here as anywhere. All he needed was the money to finance his work. She’d been right about one thing – the barn was a marvellous studio, and with the improvements he’d made to it over the past couple of years, there was no comparison with that cramped little box near the canal.

Wanting to move had been a knee-jerk reaction to the final resolution of probate on his father’s will. It had seemed to take forever, and during that time he’d become more and more convinced that he could never work here. A clean break was necessary. If he lived modestly, the money the house might raise combined with his part-time teaching salary would be enough to finance his work for some time. But what work? So far, the move of studio to Wyvern Mill had not proved successful. He might be making good progress on his written assignments for the adult teaching certificate, but all he’d created were a couple of maquettes. Even the bust of his father had remained unfinished, as he’d left it when the old man died. Perhaps his father had been right after all. He couldn’t make it on his own. There seemed little hope of even earning a basic living from his art. No matter what he did, which way he turned, his life seemed permanently stuck in limbo.

The wind was growing wilder, with a freezing, rain-needled bite. The trees whipped back and forth, and few leaves still clung to the branches. Clouds swelled, then tumbled and shredded in a manic race across the sky. He squinted up. The sky wasn’t just grey, it was a spectrum of muted shades; striations of dove grey, of taupe, of pearl edged with slate, even a sickly yellow stain which spread then dissolved, quickly overtaken by an inky mauve. Was the fine sting of drizzle about to give way to a downpour any moment?

The boy was late. Had he bottled out? Perhaps it had been foolish to expect him to go along with the plan. Never mind that his health was at risk; he probably saw it as a humiliation. Then Stefan heard the door close behind him. He turned and, with relief, saw Dominic standing on the doorstep in his characteristic, slightly hunched pose, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his black hoodie.

‘All right?’ Stefan asked.

Dominic flicked back his long hair. ‘No.’ he said. ‘It’s not all right. I don’t want to go.’

‘I’ll come in with you if you want.’

‘I’m not a child. I don’t need my fucking hand held!’

Stefan refused to react to his rebuff. ‘I just thought, it might be a good idea to get a check-up myself while I’m there. You never know,’ he added with a half-smile.

Dominic did not respond, just hunched his shoulders even more. Stefan noticed his chin crumpling, his mouth twitching down at the corners. Please don’t let him cry, he thought, knowing how Dom would loathe a witness to his distress. His fragile pride was all he had. Regaining control of his face muscles, the youth said, ‘I’m not fucking going. It’s a stupid idea. Anyway, it’s too late.’

Stefan nodded. How to tell him? ‘You
are
later than I said. But in fact … um … it’s a drop-in on a Thursday. No need for an appointment.’ Had Dominic known earlier, Stefan suspected he wouldn’t have got out of bed till half past five in the afternoon. As it was, they were still in with a chance of leaving before midday.

‘Why? Oh, I get it. You didn’t think I’d agree to come at all unless you said you’d made an appointment?’

‘Something along those lines.’

‘So …’ Dom scuffed the metal of the veranda with his trainer. ‘Like, you tried to trick me?’

‘Let’s just say I was exerting a bit of pressure.’

‘You don’t have much faith in me, do you?’

‘I probably have more faith in you than you have in yourself,’ Stefan said.

Dom tossed back his hair again. ‘Got a smoke?’ he asked, as he passed Stefan and clanged down the steps, making for the car. Relieved, and at the same time touched by the boy’s assumed nonchalance, Stefan followed him, expression bland, and reached for the pack of cigarettes.

‘Get your nicotine hit now. You’ll not be allowed to smoke there.’

It took less than half an hour to get to the hospital, but it seemed to take nearly as long to find a parking spot. Leaving Dominic in the car, Stefan walked around the sprawling site to locate the clinic. It was a separate prefabricated unit with a dedicated area for parking. It began to rain heavily and he ran back to the car. He threw himself into the driver’s seat with a grunt, splattering raindrops across his passenger as he slammed the door.

‘I’m re-parking. There are a few spaces next to the clinic. This isn’t the weather for a ten-minute stroll.’

Dominic made no response. The tension radiating from him was palpable.

‘Look, I understand how you feel.’ Stefan started the engine and drove around the site again. ‘But the thing to remember is that everyone’s here for the same reason – the people who come in for check-ups, the doctors and nurses too. If there’re no patients, there’s no work for a clinic full of specialist staff to do.’ Able to slot the car into a space directly outside the one-storey structure, he engaged the handbrake. ‘No one’s going to be shocked or surprised. They’ll ask you, but you don’t have to be explicit.’

‘What about you?’ Dominic interrupted.

‘Like I said, I’ll come in with you and get checked out too, unless you’d rather be on your own. In that case I’ll just wait in the car.’

Dom was shaking his head, his lips compressed. For a moment, Stefan wondered whether he was turning down the offer or waging some inner battle. Was he still debating whether or not to go through with this? Abruptly, Dom pulled up his hood, unbuckled his seat belt, and was out of the car before Stefan could find out.

Chapter Eighteen - Dominic

Did Stefan think he was going to do a runner? For just an instant, he’d looked worried. Before slamming the car door, Dom leaned in to reassure the old man.