Storms Over Blackpeak (5 page)

‘It must have taken some guts,’ she frowned, ‘to ride again after that.’

‘I don’t know about guts. It took some time, that’s for sure. They had to keep shifting the pins in the joint. Mum and I saw a lot of waiting rooms that year.’

‘The shoulder’s a nasty break. Especially when your bones are still growing.’ Cally nodded sympathetically. ‘My mother’s an orthopaedic nurse,’ she added, by way of explanation, choosing not to mention that she herself had done a pre-med year before retreating to the relative certainties of mathematics.

‘Yeah? Your mum might know Paul.’ Ash tipped some more saddle oil onto his cloth. ‘He was my surgeon.’

‘You poor thing.’ Standing on tiptoe in front of the fireplace in the library, Cally looked up into the stag’s dark glass eyes as she dusted its nose. Between the points of its antlers, a spider’s web caught the morning light. ‘Fancy cutting your head off and hanging you on the wall.’ In vain, Cally stretched up a little more. ‘What had you ever done to them, eh?’

‘I’m pretty sure he can’t hear you.’

Jesus! Cally looked back to see Ash standing in the doorway, a grin on his face. As her heart rate slowed, he crossed the room towards her. Reaching over her shoulder, he took the duster from her hand and swiped it over the top of the stag’s antlers.

‘He’s over a hundred and ten years old, you know,’ he said, handing the duster back. ‘He’s got to be deaf by now.’

She smiled.

‘I just came to see’ — Ash took a step back — ‘if you need anything. I’ve got to head into town.’

God, did she? Probably. But on her first day in charge
of the house, she had no idea what. A long-handled duster, maybe? Tentatively, she shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Thanks.’

‘Okay.’ He smiled. ‘See you later.’ In the doorway, he turned again. ‘I’ll be back before dinner.’

Dinner. God. Cally checked her watch. She’d better get on with the dusting.

A few minutes later, she heard Ash’s ute chug away, gears grating, down the drive. She had been surprised to see Lizzie drive off early that morning in the only decent vehicle she’d glimpsed at Glencairn Station so far. How could the Fergussons live in a castle like this and drive nothing but dodgy old trucks? It didn’t make sense. Surely there had to be something — a Bentley, at least — concealed around the place somewhere?

Dusting the ground floor took her most of the rest of the day — but hey, there were a lot of interesting things to dust. The first time, at least. And if she hadn’t stopped to examine so many of them, she could have got round a lot quicker.

The garden was already losing the sun when she finally made it out there to forage up what she needed for dinner. Surveying the vegetable patch, Cally felt a moment’s panic. Vegetables were a lot easier to identify when they were sitting on supermarket shelves. Maybe she should go back inside and download some sort of chart … But no, those were carrot tops, she recognised them. And broccoli, and spinach. She could totally do this.

She was making lasagne, because — well, who didn’t like that? All she needed was one green vegetable to go with it. Lasagne with … spinach! Perfect. She ripped off a few handfuls of leaves.

Inside, she glanced up at the clock on the wall. Gosh, she’d better crack on with it. She didn’t have much time.
First, she needed to find a pot … That accomplished, Cally got the pasta on to boil and started chopping onions. Fast. She had just tipped them into the frying pan when she heard a truck pull up outside. Okay, so the mince could just go straight in with the onions, couldn’t it? That would save some time. She turned the heat up.

‘Hi.’ Walking into the kitchen, Ash placed a large cardboard box on top of the table.

‘What have you got there?’

As Cally looked at it, the box emitted a series of hollow bangs and a resounding miaow.

‘It’s a cat,’ Ash told her, somewhat redundantly. ‘The vet gave it to me. We’re looking for one, apparently.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘I hope they weren’t having me on.’

Unfolding the lid, he lifted out a silver tabby.

Cally brushed the onions from her palms. ‘Where’d he come from?’ she asked, joining Ash for a closer look.

‘They found him in the car park.’ Still dangling from Ash’s hand, the little cat began to purr.

Cally rubbed the cat’s cheek. ‘Does he have a name?’

‘Tom?’ Ash suggested, with a grin, allowing the cat to pour from his hands to hers. He glanced behind her. ‘Is that pot supposed to be doing that?’

Shit! Thrusting the cat back at him, Cally ran to rescue the pasta. A powerful smell of burning onions met her at the range. Quickly, she sloshed the lasagne into a colander, swearing under her breath as the cloud of steam hit her hands, and hacked at the blackening onions and mince on the bottom of the frying pan. God, what was
that
smell? The mince? Beef shouldn’t smell like that, should it? Or maybe it should. Maybe this was what it was like when it was — whatever — grass-fed, organic, free-range. When it didn’t come out of a plastic supermarket tray.

She frowned at the pan. Whatever else the beef was, it was certainly done. Well-done, you might say. She threw in a can of tomatoes, gave it another quick stir, and took it off the range.

Half an hour later, Cally took the finished lasagne from the oven and set it down on the table in front of Ash and Carr.

‘Thanks.’ Carr smiled at her encouragingly. ‘That looks great.’

Shooing the cat off her chair, she sat down and watched Carr dig in the serving spoon. The over-cooked pasta had turned to mush, she saw, but that didn’t matter — it usually did. No one cared. It was part of the fun of lasagne.

‘Great,’ repeated Ash, surveying his plate.

Carr brought his fork to his mouth.

‘How is it?’ she asked.

He swallowed. ‘Good.’

Cally picked up her own fork. Oh my God. The mince was so tough it was like chewing a mouthful of gravel. Gravel and slime. And the taste — it was
rank
. Like, like … what? Old socks? She could hardly begin to describe it. She glanced around the table. Ash and Carr didn’t seem to have noticed. Was it just her?

Trying to rid herself of the taste, she took a mouthful of spinach and nearly choked. What the hell?

‘Okay?’ Carr looked at her in concern.

‘Mm-huh.’ With an effort, she swallowed. ‘Sorry. I’m not sure what I’ve done to the spinach.’

Carr managed to keep the amusement she could see in his eyes from his voice. ‘It’s kale.’

It was what? ‘Is it,’ she asked tentatively, ‘supposed to be like this?’

He hesitated. ‘It can be a bit tricky to cook.’

‘What do you do with it?’

‘No one knows,’ Ash grinned, exchanging a look with his father. ‘Except Lizzie.’

Good grief — he’d actually cleared his plate. Kale and all. Cally was in awe. ‘Would you like some more lasagne?’ She picked up the spoon.

‘No! … No, I’m all good. Couldn’t eat another bite.’ He nodded. ‘It was really … great … though. Very filling.’

She bit her lip. ‘It’s awful. Isn’t it?’

‘No,’ Carr said. ‘Not awful.’

An uncomfortable silence followed.

‘The mince you used,’ he asked carefully. ‘Was there a tag on the bag?’

Cally nodded anxiously. ‘A red one.’ She watched his face. ‘Was that not right?’

‘No, no, it’s fine.’ He hesitated. ‘That’s a feral goat I shot a while back, that’s all. That’ll be why it tastes a bit gamey.’

Gross. But okay, they obviously ate goat mince somehow. She supposed she’d better learn what to do with it. ‘So, how do you usually cook it?’

Ash and Carr exchanged another look.

‘I can’t say I ever have,’ Carr told her.

Cally’s eyes widened in horror. ‘You mean you eat it raw?’

‘No. No, I …’ He coughed. ‘I was feeding it to the cat.’

Oh God, oh God. ‘But,’ she said faintly, ‘you didn’t have a cat until tonight.’

‘No.’ Carr took a long swallow of wine. ‘The last one died a couple of years back.’

Euw, euw, euw!

‘It’s not your fault,’ he said. ‘I should have cleared out the freezer.’

Cally stared at the remains of the lasagne in the dish.

‘Ash,’ Carr ordered, ‘get Cally another glass of wine.’ He patted her arm briefly. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

She looked up as he started to gather the plates. ‘I’ll do that.’

‘You stay there. We’ll get the dishes.’

Meekly sipping her wine, Cally watched Ash and Carr clear away the remains of the world’s most offensive dinner. Ash paused, the lasagne dish in his hand.

‘Shall I give some of this to—’ He looked around. ‘Where’s the cat gone?’

Cally pretended not to notice as Carr shook his head quickly and nodded at the bin.

‘We’d better shut that cat away somewhere tonight,’ Carr said, perhaps hoping to disguise the thump of the lasagne hitting the bin.

‘I can keep him in my room,’ Cally volunteered. She’d quite like some company.

Carr frowned. ‘I was thinking more of the laundry.’ Closing the dishwasher door, he glanced around the kitchen.

‘Go on,’ Ash offered. ‘I’ll finish up here.’

Carr nodded. ‘See you tomorrow.’

‘Where’s he going?’ Cally asked, emboldened by her third glass of wine, as the kitchen door closed behind Carr.

‘To ground,’ Ash smiled. ‘When Lizzie’s not here, he pretty much lurks in his den.’

‘His den?’ she echoed. Which room was that? She’d better make sure she kept it clean.

‘You know,’ — Ash’s grin broadened — ‘the room with your mate on the wall.’

‘The library?’

He shrugged. ‘Sure. If you want.’

‘What does he do in there?’

Ash looked at her strangely. ‘He reads.’

Oh — of course.

‘Well.’ He hung up the tea towel. ‘I might head off upstairs for a while.’ He looked around again. ‘I’d better just find that cat. Can you see him anywhere?’

Shaking her head, Cally looked around, too.

‘Well, I guess he’ll be fine,’ Ash decided, twenty minutes later, when they’d finished combing the ground floor. ‘Are you heading up?’ he asked, as she hesitated at the foot of the stairs.

‘I think I will.’ She might as well. She cast a glance back at the firelight flickering under the library door. It was that or sit downstairs by herself. And besides — Cally smothered a yawn — she was exhausted.

Ash nodded. ‘I’ll get the lights in the kitchen.’

Upstairs, Cally shut her bedroom door and pulled the curtains. She had forgotten to switch the heater on, and the room was freezing. She turned her electric blanket to high. Outside, she heard Ash’s footsteps come up the stairs, his door open and close, and a few seconds later, the garish chord of a computer powering on. Should she do the same herself? She could watch a movie, or maybe stream some TV, if Glencairn’s broadband was up to that. But all she really felt like doing was climbing under the duvet and curling up in a ball. She rubbed her forehead.
God
, what a disaster tonight had been. Was poisoning your employer a firing offence? It ought to be, surely.

Cally listened at the door. She could hear what sounded like
The Sopranos
coming from Ash’s room. She headed across the hall and locked herself securely into the bathroom.

Sliding into bed at last, a fleece on over her grey T-shirt, she almost screamed as her feet hit something warm and furry.

‘
There
you are.’ Folding back the duvet, she looked down
at the cat. ‘At least somebody’s settling in well around here.’

The cat — well, she couldn’t go on calling him that. He needed a name. And not Tom. Or Puss, or Kitty.

‘Doug?’ she suggested. ‘You look like a Doug.’ As if to demonstrate his approval of his new name, the cat rolled onto his side, shot out his front paws, and dug his claws into the sheet.

‘Uh-uh.’ Cally picked him up. ‘Out you get.’ She carried him over to the armchair. ‘And no scratching.’

Getting back into bed, she turned out the light, pulled the duvet up under her chin, and closed her eyes. Doug landed on her stomach. After a couple of rotations, he settled down and started to purr. Giving up, Cally closed her eyes again. Oh well. At least he was warm.

She woke up with a raging thirst. A combination of two-year-old cat food and pinot noir, she supposed. God knew what time it was. Not late, presumably, since the light in the hall was still on. Dislodging Doug, she groped for last night’s water glass and tiptoed out to the bathroom.

She came out just in time to see Doug’s tail disappear around the edge of Ash’s bedroom door, which was standing ajar.

‘Doug!’ Cally hissed. Ash’s light was off and his room was silent.

‘Doug!’ she whispered. Was that the sound of breathing inside the room? Imagining Doug about to hit the sleeping Ash like a furry cannonball, she crept closer to the door.

‘Doug?’ Cally pushed the door open a little further. She peered into the darkness. ‘Doug, come on, get out here.’

‘Cally.’ There was a cough behind her. ‘Hello.’

Cally withdrew her head from Ash’s bedroom to see Carr standing there watching her, a paperback in his hand. She closed her eyes briefly. Well. This had to be a good look.

‘Do we have a guest,’ Carr asked, his dark eyes full of amusement, ‘I don’t know about?’

There was a miaow from the floor. She looked down as Doug exited the bedroom, winding casually between her ankles before crossing the landing to flop at Carr’s feet.

Carr scooped the cat up. Doug settled into the crook of Carr’s arm, arched his back, and began to purr. Well, who wouldn’t? Cally thought.

‘Doug?’ Carr looked at her.

She nodded. ‘He — he seemed like a Doug.’

He handed Doug back. ‘Here you go.’

Cally frowned, listening. Where was that beeping coming from? Somewhere downstairs? ‘What’s that?’

A guilty expression flitted across Carr’s face. ‘Ash is down in the kitchen.’

It was the microwave. Of course — they must be starving.

‘I’m really sorry,’ she managed, holding Doug tightly, ‘about the food tonight.’

‘It’s fine.’ Carr’s voice was firm. ‘It was …’ Cally watched him struggle to think of something positive he could say. He smiled at her gently. ‘Tomorrow’s another day.’