Love Notes from Vinegar House (7 page)

I dumped my things inside the bedroom door, then my phone buzzed – a missed phone call from Mum that had gone straight to message bank. I moved around the room for a better signal then returned Mum’s call, assuring her that I’d arrived safely and telling her to have a safe trip. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her to take me with them. Luckily, the phone call dropped out before I could.

I pulled the curtains back to let in the grey wintry light. The nap of the velvet had worn in places from countless fingers doing the exact same thing. I wondered whose room it had been before Dad’s. Maybe I’d keep that question up my sleeve for when I was sitting in the drawing room with Grandma and Rumer and had nothing to say.

The weak light at the window couldn’t chase away the gloom, so I turned on a bedside lamp then pushed at the springs of the bed that sagged in the middle. The room was cold. I got up and ran my hand over the heating coil against the wall. It was barely tepid. Just warm enough, really, to keep the damp from the walls. I’d have to ask Mrs Skelton for a hot water bottle for my bed. Grandma didn’t believe in electric blankets.

This was the room that my family bunked in whenever we stayed at Vinegar House when I was little. There were plenty of spare bedrooms but us kids were always too scared of the house to sleep without an adult around. I found it hard to picture the young Mathew – my Dad’s name – hanging out in his room with posters and a radio (if Grandma had let him).

His old study desk took up a lot of space in one corner of the room. It made a great cubbyhouse if you threw a blanket over it and climbed under into the space left for feet. It was during my cubbyhouse days that I found Dad’s initials carved into the underside of the desk. I’d been learning my alphabet at school, and discovering his initials was like uncovering a lost treasure map to my father. This proved he had been a boy once. Someone short like me. Someone who didn’t always stride about barking commands. But when I asked Dad about it he seemed annoyed, saying it was, “not in his nature to deface property, even as a child.” He’d used the work “deface” as if I should know what it meant. I was five at the time.

For years, Dad would bring some blow-up mattresses when we stayed over, and we’d pretend we were camping. Oscar usually ended up in bed with Mum and Dad by the morning, but Isabella and I would line up our beds side by side, giggling at the dust bunnies under the high double bed, telling each other ghost stories until we were left breathless in the dark, scared by the strength of our imaginations.

We hadn’t stayed over for years. Dad was always in a hurry to get back to some business thing, and Isabella used uni as an excuse to do whatever she wanted. I felt sorry for Oscar. By the time he was old enough to join in with the games of the older cousins, we’d pretty much stopped playing, although Isabella was always up for a board game if he ever got tired of doing nothing.

Isabella. I wished she were with me, putting up with Grandma and Rumer and old Mrs Skelton. Then I realised it was all her fault. If she hadn’t taken a holiday, I’d be in my own home right now, checking out the pantry, or lying on the couch in front of the TV. I’d gotten through to her mobile phone before I left home, and though she was sad for Mum, she was happy to take Dad’s advice and continue her holiday, agreeing with him that there was nothing she could do. At least she hadn’t laughed when I told her about staying at Vinegar House.

“Oh, sorry, Freya, but it won’t be that bad,” she said. “I’ll bring you back a present.”

“Thanks,” I’d said dully.

“And say hi to Rumer for me.” And then she did laugh.

“I hate you,” I said.

“I’ll make it a big present,” she said.

I lay down on the bed and smelled the strange mix of must and lavender that always reminded me of Vinegar House. The pillowcases felt damp. I noticed the paint on the ceiling was peeling in one corner of the room, and there was a stain near the window as if the roof might be leaking.

“Your grandmother says you might like to come downstairs. Afternoon tea is ready.” Mrs Skelton was at the door, the duster still in one hand.

I slid off the bed, aware that I’d had my shoes on the bedcover, and knowing that Mrs Skelton had seen me.

“Afternoon tea? Yummy,” I gabbled.

I hadn’t said the word yummy … well, ever really. I barely stopped myself from rubbing my stomach like some pantomime character. There was something about Mrs Skelton that always made me feel like apologising.

“I hear you’ve made a tart.” I tried to brush at the dirt my shoes had left, pretending I was smoothing the bedcover.

“Did you now?” She eyed me suspiciously.

“Rumer told me. She said she hoped the tarts were as good as your muffins.” I laughed nervously.

“Did she?” Mrs Skelton moved towards the bed and shook her head at the mess my shoes had made.

“I love a good tart,” I said, edging towards the door. That just sounded rude. I stifled a nervous giggle. I didn’t think Mrs Skelton would enjoy the joke. “Muffins too. Muffins and tarts. They’re all good.”

“Afternoon tea is a waste of time, if you ask me,” said Mrs Skelton severely. “Considering your dinner is at six. Don’t fill up on tart,” she said. “I’m not cooking a roast for nothing.”

“Oh, a roast. Great. I’m just going to …”

And with that I left the room and ran down the stairs, leaving Mrs Skelton grumbling behind me.

The Harts didn’t stay for long. There was barely time for me to go downstairs and shove the rubbery lemon tart into my mouth before they were standing up and saying their goodbyes.

“See you soon,” Rumer said to Luke before she disappeared upstairs.

As usual, Rumer hadn’t wasted time organising her social calendar. It seemed like Luke Hart was back on the menu.

My heart skipped as Luke stopped on the steps with me then leaned in and brushed my cheek with his lips and whispered in my ear, “I will see you soon …”

Actually, that didn’t really happen.

While I was dreaming of Luke Hart kissing me on the cheek he was waving goodbye, closing the car door behind him, then disappearing down the driveway in a flurry of white gravel.

Then I sat down on the house entrance steps and looked out past the bluff to the sea, which was the grey of Luke Hart’s eyes. A sea breeze sent the smell of something dead from the beach or it may have just been a stale mound of seaweed. I watched the choppy waves and the seagulls wheeling above me, riding on the air currents.

And I felt the house watching me as I sat.

That first night at Vinegar House, well technically, it was the next morning, I woke at 2.47 am. I know this because I checked my mobile phone, which I kept under my pillow. I wasn’t sure what had woken me at first, and then I heard the
slap slap
of a loose shutter from somewhere downstairs. I was mostly awake so I decided to visit the toilet. With my torch app guiding me, I found my way to the dresser and turned on the tiny lamp there, then moved into the hallway and turned right towards the bathroom. I could hear the sound of fast-running water. It wasn’t the shallow sound of water splashing into the handbasin, but the deeper sound of water pouring into the bath.

Who’d be taking a bath now? I thought.

By this time I really had to go to the toilet, and the nearest toilet was in that bathroom. The second toilet was downstairs, and I didn’t like the idea of moving around the dark house with only a torch app on my phone to guide me.

I knocked softly on the bathroom door, but there was no answer. I knocked again, louder this time, then tried the handle and the door opened with a creak. The room was in darkness, so I turned on the light. Steam had fogged the cabinet mirror and condensation was already forming on the peeling wallpaper. A flimsy plastic curtain screened off the claw-foot bath up against the wall.

“Hello?” I whispered.

I know you think I’m probably crazy not to turn and run, but I was still half asleep, and my brain was on autopilot. The running water continued. I thought I heard the sound of splashing about, like someone was in the bath already.

I needed to go to the toilet but I wasn’t about to go if someone was in the bath so I reached out and tugged at the curtain in a jerky move.

“What are you doing?”

I screamed.

There was no one in the bath, but when I turned around Mrs Skelton was standing by the sink watching me with a frown on her face.

“I … I heard the water …”

The housekeeper moved forwards and turned the taps off tightly.

“This house is old,” she said. “The whole plumbing system needs replacing, but …” She shrugged.

“The taps?”

“Sometimes the taps work themselves loose,” said Mrs Skelton. “I’ll get Mr Chilvers to look at it tomorrow.”

Then she pulled at the chain attached to the bathplug so that the water could escape. We didn’t discuss how the plug just happened to be in place.

She stared me down until I said, “All right.”

I felt her watch me as I returned to my bedroom. I left the dresser light on and hopped back into bed, then realised I hadn’t made it to the toilet after all. I’d just have to wait until morning.

And I tried not to think about the splashing noises from the bath.

I don’t like conflict. Some people seem to like the excitement of it. They enjoy the yelling and the drama, but it makes my insides twist, and I run and hide whenever I can until the trouble is over. I guess you could call me a coward. It’s why I always gave in to my cousin Rumer and why I dread her bad temper. Waiting for Rumer to have one of her meltdowns was like waiting for a threatening thunderstorm. After a couple of days at Vinegar House I could feel the clouds rolling in from the horizon. There was a definite temperature drop and occasional glimpses of lightning when she snapped at me.

“
Please
don’t use my shampoo, it’s very expensive.”

“
I
was going to take that piece of toast.”

“Can you be
quiet
, I’m trying to study.”

“Do you
have
to be so noisy when you get up in the mornings?”

“Are you
totally
stupid?”

It may not seem much to you, but I knew Rumer, and this was the start of something bigger. Something was bugging her and someone was going to pay.

She was spending a lot of time in her room and I wasn’t sure what that was about.

At home I’d sleep in until lunchtime when I was on holidays. At Vinegar House I was waking up early with a cold hot water bottle – which really just made it a cold water bottle, I suppose – and a cold nose, and could only get warm if I had a hot shower. By then I was wide awake and my bed was usually made once I returned to my room. I assumed Mrs Skelton was to blame, but I never caught her at it.

Grandma insisted that Rumer and I come down to breakfast by nine every morning so that Mrs Skelton could clear the breakfast dishes. At home I hardly ever ate breakfast unless it was Sunday, and if I did, it was standing up grabbing bites of toast while doing something else. Still, it was something to do as I was already bored with my homework and we were only allowed to watch TV for a couple of hours at night.

The second morning, Rumer was late downstairs, and by the third morning she nearly missed breakfast altogether. When she did eventually get to the dining table, it wasn’t to eat anything.

“Where’s my red top?” she demanded.

I shrugged and nibbled at my toast crust.

Grandma carefully sectioned off the last of her poached egg and pushed it onto the back of her fork. Once she’d eaten it, she dabbed at her lips with a napkin and placed her knife and fork side by side on the plate.

“Red top?” she repeated.

“I only have one red top here,” said Rumer, “and it’s missing.”

“Elbows,” said Grandma, and Rumer lifted her elbows from the dining table with a puff of exasperation.

“Is it in the wash?” I asked timidly.

“I’ve gone through the clean washing and it isn’t there,” said Rumer.

“Dirty washing?” I asked.

She gave me a withering look, which I guessed meant it wasn’t there either.

Grandma carefully sipped black tea from a floral china teacup. “Perhaps you could try your bedroom floor, Rumer? Mrs Skelton tells me that is your preferred storage option.”

Rumer’s eyes blazed like cold ice. “Mrs Skelton’s–”

“A very good help to me. However, she does find it hard to vacuum your floor, Rumer. Perhaps you could tidy that up after breakfast?”

Rumer pushed her chair away from the table and swept out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Grandma Vinegar finished her tea as if nothing had happened, then said, “The wind is brisk today.”

But I knew that wouldn’t be the end of it.

Just before noon that day I found Rumer’s red top folded on my bed. I wasn’t sure how it got there. I went to Rumer’s bedroom, the door was ajar.

“Rumer?” I said, quietly.

I pushed at the door – a slight shudder passing through me as I looked around the Blue Room. It hadn’t changed much since that first Murder in the Dark game, though the floor-length mirror had gone. The floor was tidy and only shoes remained at the foot of the bed. There was no cousin in sight, but a faint pulsing glow drew me inside. Rumer had brought her laptop with her.