Don't Look Back (12 page)

‘In the wilderness,' she answered, with a pained expression. ‘But he is in his rightful place now and the house will be prepared.'

I fidgeted with annoyance. Her words were completely obscure, as if she enjoyed baffling me. ‘It'll be a manor house again?'

Her jaw was taut with tension. ‘A foundation stone was blessed in the fifth century and in the twenty-first century we still embrace the Word and dedicate ourselves to the lost souls.'

Well, that made perfect sense.
‘And what are my duties?'

‘You'll be tasked to clean the house, Sinead, to restore it to its former glory.'

I grunted something unintelligible.

She paused and gave me a critical glance. ‘Can you work with diligence, modesty and obedience?'

It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I didn't want to join a convent, and how immodest did she imagine I'd be, cleaning some filthy old mausoleum. Maybe I'd got this all wrong and she was confusing me with someone else.
Maybe she hadn't understood how serious this was, that Patrick was missing.

‘My brother came to the house, Sister Catherine, didn'the?'

She pressed her lips together demurely. ‘If he was invited.'

‘Did you give him a trial too?'

‘Every trial is different, Sinead.'

I clenched my teeth and tried again. ‘What happened? When did he leave?'

‘I have already told you that the answers are here for you.'

My frustration bubbled over. ‘Patrick's missing,' I almost yelled, ‘and he could be in trouble. Will you give me a straight answer?'

Nothing rattled Sister Catherine. She fingered the set of rosary beads threaded through her hands and bowed her head. ‘In fourteen days you will know.'

I pushed my fingers into my hair. She was truly insane. I wasn't prepared to wait fourteen days for her to give me answers. I'd look for them myself. All I had to do was to give her the slip and I'd begin my search. I glared at her as she beckoned me to follow her through the magnificent hallway, down a long corridor and into a small room resembling a scullery. It was filled with a big enamel sink, various cleaning tools, a granite-topped washstand and an overhead clothes pulley. There was even an ancient mangle for wringing out clothes. To my right I could see a
large kitchen with a worn quarry-tiled floor and scrubbed pine table. This had a definite feel of being the servants' quarters. I had a sudden vision of a cook, complete with mob cap and frilly white apron, kneading pastry to make a game pie for lots of fat lords and their pampered wives. Sister Catherine was so superior about everything that it was impossible to resist the urge to needle her again.

‘You said the squire is home to stay. Is there a Mrs Squire?'

Sister Catherine didn't answer. She filled my arms with some of the cleaning materials and then beckoned me to follow her again. She led me to a vast room, open to the rafters, with a galleried landing and a hearth as big as most people's kitchens. The walls were half-panelled, painted in a soft green, the upper half papered in a leaf pattern in warm autumn colours. A long trestle table had seats for twelve people, the chairs upholstered in red velvet. The rest of the dark wood pieces could have been heirlooms or just from a junk shop; there was no way of knowing. The floor seemed to be made of dusty stone flags under a large moth-eaten rug. I examined the things I'd been given – carbolic soap, white vinegar, beeswax polish, squares of material, a wooden-handled broom and what appeared to be a real feather duster. There was already a ladder propped against the wall and I wondered if Sister Catherine had even heard of health and safety. I stifled a loud yawn and received a disapproving glance.

‘So … where shall I start?'

She nodded. ‘The windows. It's been a long time; you could let in some light.'

*

The windows were long and narrow but there were eight of them and sections of the leaded panes were concave and would have to be washed extra carefully. There was nothing to do but grit my teeth and begin. Sister Catherine watched me for a few seconds and then glided off. A minute later I saw her disappearing into the grounds. The ladder was light and strong with two reassuring safety catches, but I was instantly distracted by all the cobwebs, some as thick and opaque as a pair of stockings. The irony of all this hadn't escaped me. I had the staying power of a butterfly and the idea of engaging in dirty, laborious, time-consuming and mind-numbingly boring physical work was laughable to anyone who knew me. I once told Mum, who was a perfectionist and liked everything in our house just so, that cleaning was soul-destroying and I never intended to do any. In fact, thinking about it, this was one of the worst jobs anyone could have devised for me.

I decided to use the time to consider my plan of action. I'd done well in tracking Patrick so far; it shouldn't take long to discover what he was trying to show me next. I had the ornate key from the flat safely tucked away in my bag. Patrick had to have left it for a reason. It was a substantial key that I could see belonging in an imposing house like this – maybe there was something here that I was meant to discover.

I managed to wash four of the windows before Sister Catherine came to check up on me. My arms were already aching and my face was streaked with dirt and perspiration. I pretended not to notice her and pressed on, wondering if she'd have the manners to speak or just survey me like she was spying on some kind of skivvy. I blinked and she was gone, but every time I thought about exploring she seemed to reappear. A feeling of unreality swept over me again. I couldn't really be taking orders from a weird over-controlling nun, with nothing more than her word that after two weeks' slave labour she would tell me about Patrick.

I wiped my face on the bottom of my old T-shirt. My stomach was growling and I was parched. There was a small jug on a side table with two glasses beside it. I poured myself a drink. I gulped thirstily, but my tingling tongue immediately told me something wasn't right and I spat it back in the glass. There was no mistaking the taste – vinegar. I marched into the scullery, the glass in my hand, and turned on the dull limestone-mottled tap. It was stiff and heavy and the water took ages to run through the pipes as if it hadn't been used for a while. I let it flow for a few seconds, checked it was cold, and then sipped it. The taste was exactly the same. I was hot, bothered and now fuming. What was wrong with this stupid place?

When Sister Catherine appeared again I confronted her. ‘There's something wrong with the water. It's rancid.'

She didn't respond but took hold of the spare glass and filled it to the top. She drank in one continuous stream
while I looked on, feeling as if I was going mad. Was she part of Patrick's weird mind game? Maybe they were in this together. She shielded her eyes to assess my work so far and managed a tiny nod, which was probably her idea of praise. I went outside and took a minute to check my phone messages. There was a soppy one from Harry hoping I was OK and saying that he'd come round tonight because he missed me already. I felt guilty all over again.

I suddenly noticed the time and stared in disbelief. It was just before eleven, which meant I'd only been working for fifty minutes. With my phone nestled in the palm of my hand I began slowly counting, staring intently at the numbers in front of me. I reached sixty and took a deep breath, certain that nothing would happen, but the minute moved on. I repeated this again.

What did you expect? It's impossible for time to slow down; it defies the laws of physics.

It was only my perception of time that had altered. Even five-year-olds knew that time dragged when you were doing something boring. Interminable tasks made the day … well … interminable. Thankfully I'd brought a sandwich and sat on a bench in the sun, eating it greedily before scrunching up the wrapper to put in my pocket. Back inside the hallway I heard an odd noise and stopped in my tracks. It sounded like the softest voice, coming from somewhere close by. I strained to listen. It could have been a
shhh
sound or even someone sighing, but it was so faint I decided I had imagined it.

I was desperate to start my search, but Sister Catherine kept her vigil over me and made it impossible. I finished the windows and then opened the rusty tin of beeswax and scooped some on to a clean cloth. I rubbed it into the table in a circular movement. The wood was so dry that it took half the tin just to polish the table top, and the chairs had so much fancy fretwork that I was soon ready to scream. I worked for what seemed like an eternity, my mood growing uglier as my mind contemplated the enormity of the task ahead. There was the panelling to be washed down, the flagstone floor to be scrubbed using only soap flakes grated from the bar. The rug would have to be cleaned without the benefit of something normal like a vacuum cleaner and I'd probably be expected to climb the chimney to check for birds' nests.

The afternoon dragged in a way I never thought possible. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as the heat increased. This was when I realized the truth of the situation – I'd never survive fourteen hours let alone fourteen days. Why allow myself to be tortured like this? Patrick had already made me suffer and stolen enough from me – especially my time. No matter how much I wanted to find him, I simply wasn't up to this. I'd thank Sister Catherine but say that the work wasn't for me. As if on cue, a black figure moved through the hallway, her voice a gravelly whisper.

‘Squire James would like to meet you now, Sinead.'

We stared at each other for what seemed like forever as my mind tried to make sense of what was in front of me. The beach boy. He was a vision, a beautiful strutting peacock versus my imitation of a scraggy crow. I self-consciously rearranged my spiky black hair, trying not to contemplate how awful I looked. Sister Catherine must have detected a certain tension in the air.

‘Is everything all right, Master James?'

A firm hand gripped my arm and I was too stunned to shake it off.

‘We'll just take a walk in the garden, Sister, straighten a few things out.'

He was so attractive it was criminal, and everything about him, from his slight swagger to the arrogant tilt of his chin, told me that he knew. He was wearing ordinary blue jeans and a V-necked white T-shirt, plus a pair of grey canvas laced pumps. Casual but still smart, yet I'd always prefer him as the beach boy.

He rounded on me, his gorgeous eyes blazing. ‘Are you following me?'

‘Me? You have to be joking. I've done everything to get as far away from you as possible, but here you are … popping up again.'

He stood back to survey me at arm's length. ‘Was it you outside the restaurant last night?'

Damn. He
had
clocked me. ‘Yes, I happened to be passing on my way home to cook dinner for my
boyfriend
.'

He jammed his tongue to the side of his mouth. ‘Oh yeah, I remember. Shaggy?'

I winced for effect. ‘His name is Harry, and he just isn't vain like you. Conceited guys are such a turn-off.'

He had the nerve to smirk.

‘What are you doing here?' I asked coolly. ‘Sister Catherine made me think you had some posh title.'

He seemed surprised. ‘Benedict House is my family home. I was brought up here.' He smirked again. ‘Don't worry about the title … just call me James.'

My mouth dropped open. He was actually revelling in being master of this ancient pile. Questions about Patrick were bubbling up in me, but I had to turn away, annoyed with myself for letting him get to me.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw him shake his head. ‘How's it possible for anyone to exist with so much hate and anger inside?'

‘It's surprisingly easy,' I answered with acid calm.

‘I really want to understand you,' he went on. ‘Fate
seems to have brought us together and I haven't got long … so … humour me.'

I was exhausted, emotionally and physically, a dangerous combination coupled with my incredibly short fuse. ‘We can't all sail through life without a care in the world …'

My words wiped the smile off his face; he momentarily closed his eyes as if in pain. After a minute or so he looked at me again, his expression anguished. ‘You're sure you know things about me … but it's not what you think.'

I looked at him with contempt. ‘You own a classic sports car, date a different girl every week, like to be called Master – or sometimes Squire James – and the villagers probably bow and scrape to you.'

He took a step closer. ‘The car is on hire and how many girls I date is my own business.'

I made a small noise of scorn. He moved closer still.

‘No one bows and scrapes, and only Sister Catherine uses those stupid titles.' He pointed a finger to emphasize his words, but managed to jab my arm.

I froze. ‘Did you just prod me?'

James shrugged, which made me even angrier. In retaliation I used the flat of my hand to give his shoulder a small push, but I must have caught him off balance. He went down like a house of cards and lay sprawled on the grass.

‘Sorry,' I mumbled, moving to help him.

James studied something on the ground as he tried to
get his breath back. For the first time I noticed that he looked wan beneath the tan and there were dark circles beneath his eyes. Too much partying, I figured, remembering the stunning, high-maintenance girls he hung around with.

He scrambled to his feet and dusted himself off, trying to appear nonchalant. Eventually we had to look at each other. I nibbled my top lip and shifted from one foot to the other, waiting for him to start arguing again. Our eyes locked for what seemed like ages. I couldn't have looked away if my life depended on it. He began to smile ruefully and then to laugh. Despite my attempts to remain straight-faced, I had to join in.

‘You're some sort of demon sent to make my life hell,' he said, looking me up and down in a way that made me shiver.