‘Worth anything?’
‘Some of them look like they might be. But it all goes to the Horseborrows’ estate, and they’ve left the whole thing to some seafaring charity, so . . .’ Hannah put down her tea and went to restart the fire in the hall. ‘Did you know them, Dax?’
‘Horseborrows?’ He pronounced it ‘Horse-bras’. Everything Dax said sounded sarcastic, as if she was asking him a ridiculous question. ‘Oh yeah. Since I were a kid. Kept an eye on the house for ’em, after my dad died. My granddad was the gardener here. Then my dad.’
‘Oh, really?’ Hannah poured some sump oil onto the fire, thoughtfully. No wonder Dax treated Tornley Hall as if it was his house. His family had clearly been custodians of it for decades; the old village tradition of working-class families serving the rich ones. ‘What were they like?’ Hannah asked, lighting a match. The fire exploded in the grate. ‘The Horseborrows.’ She caught herself saying ‘Horsebras’, as Dax had – an old habit from travelling abroad, to make herself understood.
Dax emerged from the study, took another gulp of tea, then lifted the fourth unit and began manoeuvring it in. ‘What you on about now?’
‘Well, what kind of personalities did they have?’
From his expression, it was obviously another stupid question. ‘They were all right. Olive was Olive, Peter was Peter.’ He grunted as he moved the last unit. She followed him and saw the final patch of brown wallpaper disappear. ‘So, giving it all to charity, are they?’
Hannah wasn’t listening. The study was transformed. White walls, new cream curtains, white shelves waiting for records. On impulse, she searched in a box for the remnant of cherry silk that she’d bought and wrapped the window-seat cushion in it.
She stood back, pleased. The room looked good.
Dax pointed at Will’s boxes of records. ‘Right. These going in now, too?’
‘Oh, yeah, but I can do that.’ Will hated anyone touching his vinyl. He’d even brought it from London in the car, because he didn’t trust the removal men.
But Dax was already lifting the first box and carrying it through. He banged it down and Hannah cringed.
‘Actually, it’s funny,’ she said, lifting the second one gently, to demonstrate how careful they needed to be. ‘I actually found some old photos of the house. I haven’t had a proper look yet, but you should – there might be photos of your granddad and your dad in there.’
Silence fell silent in the study.
She looked up, to see Dax peering out.
‘Where d’you find them?’
‘Under the bookshelves.’
Dax glanced at the sitting-room door, then at her again. He pointed at her box. ‘You should keep them boxes to pack books.’
‘Actually that’s a good idea.’
‘Actually!’ Dax snorted, as if he’d never heard such a stupid word.
Hannah flushed, too tired to think of a rejoinder. She was also starting to notice that she really did need a shower. She placed her box carefully next to Dax’s. ‘They’re quite fragile, these,’ she said. Dax walked off to fetch more records, ignoring her. ‘OK. I’ll be back in a sec,’ she said, giving up. How much harm could he do?
Reluctantly Hannah left the warm hall and ran upstairs with the recently boiled kettle to wash and change into fresh clothes in the bathroom. When she returned, her spirits lifted at the sight of the space in the hall. To her delight she saw that Dax had also stuck the new pane of glass in the window with putty. At this rate, she might be able to paint and finish the hall tomorrow, if Dax would help her move the furniture into the sitting room.
When she arrived downstairs, however, the study was empty.
There was a creak in the sitting room.
Dax stood, his back to her, flicking through the books.
‘Hundreds, in’t there?’ he said, without turning.
‘Yes,’ she replied uncertainly.
They were going to have to have a chat sometime about the way Dax walked around her and Will’s house. Clearly he’d been used to doing it his whole life. But right now, like everything else, it could wait till later.
Till after Barbara.
Without discussing it, Dax did stay, for another two hours. First he carried the rest of the record boxes into the study – rolling his eyes when Hannah hinted again that the boxes needed to be lifted more carefully – then he helped Hannah shift the furniture into the sitting room. Every half-hour he barked orders for more tea. As she still didn’t know whether Dax expected payment, or was just being a helpful neighbour, she bit her tongue and brought it. When the hall was finally cleared – the last few boxes stored in the newly painted dining room – to her surprise Dax took the filler and trowel from Hannah’s decorating box and began to plaster the cracks in the hall ceiling and walls.
‘Oh, I wasn’t going to . . .’ she started.
‘I’ve just seen the bloody mess you’ve made in there.’ He gestured at the dining room.
He had a point. In the morning light it looked as if a child had painted it last night. She’d have to open the door quickly, then shut it, when Barbara came. Hannah started to unpack the records onto the shelves, relieved to find none were broken, as Dax filled in the cracks.
They worked in silence. It didn’t feel uncomfortable. Dax clearly wasn’t interested in small talk, and she was tired.
‘So when’s your mate, Madonna, coming then?’ Dax called eventually, from up the ladder.
‘Sorry?’
‘Oh, they’re all on about it, over at the Fox. A record producer, your bloke, is he? Gemma’s got herself all worked up. Thinks she’s going to be delivering post to rock stars.’
Hannah stopped filing the records. How did everyone know about Will’s job? Had Laurie been gossiping, or Brian?
‘Er, no – he doesn’t do Madonna. His clients are more likely to come on the train, actually. Or borrow their mum’s car.’
She smiled at her own joke, but if Dax thought it was funny, he didn’t respond.
‘Where’s he going to do it – in the garage?’
‘Yeah. He’s got to convert it first, though.’
‘Jonno over in Snadesdon – he’s the builder.’
‘Well, we’re a bit of a way off that yet, but . . .’
Hannah started on a box of blues vinyl. She knew Will would reshelve it later in some anal order, but for now it would do.
Dax gave a heavy sigh. ‘Right.’
The ladder creaked.
‘Couple of hours.’ He appeared in the doorway, and handed her sandpaper. ‘Then give it a bit of that.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And make sure you do it.’ He opened the front door. ‘You can keep that sugar.’
‘Oh. That’s very kind of you,’ Hannah said, biting back a smile.
She surveyed Dax’s work in the hall. Delicate white spiders’ webs of filler criss-crossed the walls and ceiling. If she and Will had done it, it would have taken all night. The task ahead suddenly felt less daunting than it had in the depths of last night.
‘Honestly, Dax, this is brilliant,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’
‘Honestly,’ Dax repeated, with another snort.
She watched him, disconcerted. He reminded her of men she’d known as a child down at the docks with Dad. Straightforward, direct. Living in a city, she realized, had filled her own sentences with clarifying clauses. ‘I mean, honestly, actually, I have to say’, and so on, as she tried – along with everyone else – to squeeze past other people in a crowded city, apologizing, checking she’d been understood, wanting things done, not wanting to give offence by accident.
Out here, language was clear-cut, practical and used to get things done.
‘So. Tomorrow,’ Dax said, walking out.
Tomorrow? Why tomorrow? She was too exhausted to ask.
‘Oh, OK. Great. Thanks.’ She waved him off and shut the door. Two hours ago the hall had been a mess. Now, miraculously, it was clear and the walls were prepared for painting, and the tiles ready to be cleaned.
Filled with renewed energy, Hannah decided to go and hang curtains in the guestroom while the filler was drying.
She was up the ladder at the window when she heard the donkey.
Someone had untied it, and it was ambling miserably through the snow, halfway between Tornley Hall and the farm.
She dropped the curtains. The poor little thing looked hungry. This was her fault. If she’d rung the RSPCA, it would be somewhere warm now, being properly looked after.
Frustrated, Hannah fetched her phone and switched it to video mode. At least she could keep gathering evidence. But when she tried to film it, snow drifted onto the windowpane, obscuring her view. Checking that no one on the farm was around, she lifted the catch and banged the rotten old frame open, showering new paint flakes into the garden below. Leaning out, Hannah refocused the phone. She filmed the field, to show the donkey walking in the snow, then zoomed in on its wet blanket and its shoddy shelter.
Suddenly, a figure walked into the background of the shot.
Hannah dived down and waited a second, before peering back over the windowsill.
The person was still there – a large, bulky figure walking fast along the far end of the field. Hannah lifted her phone carefully and zoomed in. It was Farmer Nasty, wearing that same cap and waistcoat, despite the snow. Ahead of her Hannah now saw the figure in the hooded jacket from this morning, just behind the hedge. Her son, or perhaps a farm worker?
To her shock, Farmer Nasty picked up speed and began to run at the other person, her hands flying in the air. Her head was bobbing, as if she was shouting. Hannah took her eye from the viewfinder and tried to listen.
Nothing. It was too far away.
She carried on filming. The woman pushed the man hard. He nearly fell over. Her hands flew in the air, gesticulating.
This was bad. Farmer Nasty was clearly abusive, and not just to animals.
Then, without warning, the farmer swung round. Hannah found herself looking right at the woman’s face through the viewfinder.
She dived to the floor. Had she seen her?
The guestroom window lay wide open. To her annoyance, Hannah realized she had seen this same window from Farmer Nasty’s farmyard. That meant the farmer could see it now, lying open in the snow, even if she couldn’t see Hannah’s face or the phone.
Hannah sat on the floor and ran back the footage. And there it was: the farmer swivelling round to glare at Tornley Hall, her face a featureless blob.
Hannah peered. There was something about her hands. One was clenched like a fist. The other was . . .
Hannah squinted. Was that a middle finger?
That Wednesday afternoon, in London, Will and Matt continued working on ‘Carrie’.
Matt miraculously managed to find two session players in west London who could walk though the snow to lay down the strings. They were concentrating on that for so long it took Will a while to realize that his normally cheerful assistant was subdued.
‘What’s up?’ he said around six o’clock, as he waved off the session players.
Matt shook his head. ‘Nothing.’ He eased back in his chair, avoiding Will’s eye. ‘So, are you staying at Clare’s again tonight then?’
Will paused. ‘Why?’
‘Nothing,’ Matt said. ‘Just wondered if you were going to the pub later.’
Matt was the most promising assistant Will had had, but right now he was stepping over the line between studio banter with his boss and sticking his nose into Will’s personal life.
‘Yup, just heading off now,’ Will said, standing up, despite not having thought about it until a second ago. ‘Do you want to finish the strings and lock up?’
Matt nodded, registering that he was not invited. ‘Yeah. Yeah, of course,’ he said, uncertainly.
‘Good. See you tomorrow.’
Will walked out. Shame. But Matt would be dealing with bigger egos than his in the future, and with far more ‘creative’ personal lives. He needed to learn.
He pulled on his jacket, glancing at Clare’s studio door. He hadn’t even thought about tonight. All he knew was that, right now, he needed some air.
Outside it was still snowing, and evening was starting to fall. Will saw lights on in the King’s Head and felt the old familiar pull of a pint.
He forced himself to walk past, and pulled his jacket collar up against the cold.
Without knowing where he was going, he headed along Grayson Road and turned right, up the hill past the cheap Moroccan restaurant that he and Hannah used to eat at on Fridays.
The snow came thicker and faster.
He kept his head down and ploughed on. Without planning to, he turned left and, three minutes later, stopped opposite a terraced Edwardian house.
A ‘SOLD’ sign stood in the garden, the ‘l’ and the ‘d’ obscured by snow.
Through the flurry, Will saw a lamp on inside their old garden flat. Someone had lit the fire. There were new blinds at the windows, and new books on the shelves he’d built.
The snow drifted into his eyes and mouth and pressed his hair onto his face.
His resentment grew. He’d loved living in this flat. They could have made it work here with a child.
Why hadn’t he stopped Hannah from making them leave?
The snow swirled and tumbled around him and, before Will knew it, he was caught in a white-out. For a few seconds he was invisible to the world. And in that secret place, where there was no one to answer to, Will allowed one unspoken, forbidden thought to enter his head.
If Hannah had been able to have children naturally, like Clare, none of this would ever have happened. They’d still be here.
A man appeared at the window of the flat and shut the blind.
Will walked away, wanting to go home and realizing that he didn’t know where that was any more.
Back in Suffolk, Hannah sanded and painted the hall until nightfall, then went in search of food, her appetite having finally returned. The fridge shelf was nearly empty.
This was not funny any more. She needed Will back with food.
She retuned the radio to find a weather report: ‘Snowfall due to continue till Thursday, possibly Friday.’
Dax was right.
Friday? Today was only Wednesday.
She checked the supplies of dried food they’d brought from London: two cans of soup and a packet of oatcakes, spices and herbs, some rice, pasta, chutney, cooking oil and sweetcorn.