Guilt in the Cotswolds (3 page)

But work called, and she hustled the spaniel back and closed the front door behind them. Drew had assumed that the only rational way to proceed was to start with the attic and work downwards. Certainly, the attic contained the most mysterious items, not seen for
ages. But they were also liable to be dirty, dusty, broken and spider-ridden. And wouldn’t it make sense to clear some space downstairs first, before bringing stuff down to create more clutter? Richard had asked her to remove any objects that were unarguably rubbish, giving little clue as to the quantity there might be. Even as he’d been speaking, she had resolved to err on the side of caution, consigning as little as possible to the ‘to be thrown away’ pile.

She had not anticipated the emotional consequences of the job, although the previous evening she had glimpsed something of the risk. The old lady’s life was disintegrating before her eyes, as its component parts were sorted, boxed, and then stored for an indefinite time. None of them would ever be used or enjoyed by their owner again. There was a violence to it, a premature tidying away of a woman who still lived. No wonder her son felt guilty. Thea herself was aware of similar stirrings.

But she was being paid to do it, and if she gave it up, then someone else would be brought in. It would be no more ethical or sensitive to leave the house to moths and damp and rats. Now the owner was gone, the things were so much flotsam.

She went into the smaller of the two rooms at the back of the house, which had perhaps once been a sort of study or music room. It contained a substantial old bureau with a glass-fronted bookcase above it. There was also an upright piano against one wall, and two
indistinct oil paintings hanging either side of it. She must get going on the first list, making an inventory of each room as she tackled it. The piano, for a start, was easy to log. She found a notepad left by Richard, and wrote ‘Broadwood piano, mahogany. Fair condition.’ Then she opened the flap of the bureau, feeling a great reluctance to examine the contents. There had been moments, during other house-sits, where she had done a spot of unauthorised snooping – opening drawers and lifting lids. But now, when it was expected of her, there was a foolish resistance.

There was nothing unduly personal to be seen. The cubbyholes were all full and in good order. A lot of chequebooks with just the stubs remaining; expired savings books and three old passports; bank statements and insurance policies. The sort of things that Mrs Wilshire’s son or solicitor would perhaps need to sift through – and really not within Thea’s remit at all. She closed it again, and turned to an inspection of the contents of the bookcase. There were two rows of hardbacks with their dust jackets still intact. They all had The Book Club printed at the base of their spines, and were novels by people such as Frank Yerby and Nevil Shute. She pulled a few out, for no good reason. Thanks to the glass doors, they were free of dust and perfectly dry.

‘This isn’t what you should be doing,’ she muttered to herself. She wasn’t being useful, inspecting items that were already in plain sight and of no great interest or
value. She should be in the attic, or one of the smaller bedrooms. She should be upending boxes and emptying the wardrobes. The day would pass with nothing achieved, at this rate.

So she went upstairs and entered the second largest bedroom. Here was a big ottoman with a hinged lid, full of carefully folded cotton sheets with lavender bags tucked into the folds. Pillowcases edged with lace. Embroidered tablecloths. A silk counterpane. Lovely things that would never be used by the Wilshires again, but which might find homes if sold by specialists to those who collected such items. The ottoman itself was impressive, upholstered in red velvet and lined with satin inside. Forgetting her instructions for a while, she simply indulged in the luxury of fingering the beautiful fabrics and imagining they were hers. They conjured a special kind of affluence, where quality was taken for granted, and no self-respecting lady would wear anything other than silk next to her skin. A time quite vanished now, of course. Personal items would be made of ivory and silver, largely handmade. Furnishings would be embroidered by wives and daughters with long evenings at their disposal. These days, if you were rich, you paid other people to make, choose and install all your possessions. You lived in vast empty monochrome rooms and thought only about how to accumulate more wealth.

With a sigh, she took up her notepad again and started a new page. The ottoman should be listed as
a piece of furniture with a value, and then its contents carefully described. It took her over an hour. When done, she finally felt she had made some progress, moving to a wardrobe with a new sense of purpose.

Here were two fur coats, several outmoded suits and dresses, and a box holding a stiff canvas hat decorated with felt flowers. Again, it was safe to assume that Mrs Wilshire would not be wanting any of these garments again.

A yap from Hepzie, waiting on the landing outside the room, drew her attention. Next came a knock on the front door, which made Thea wonder if it was a repeat of a summons she had failed to hear the first time. There was a firmness to it that suggested impatience. She went down and pulled open the door.

Two people stood there, shoulder to shoulder, one of them disconcertingly recognisable.

‘Ah – you are in, then,’ said the one she didn’t recognise. ‘We’ve been knocking.’

‘Sorry. I was upstairs, half inside a wardrobe.’

A grimace of annoyance crossed the young face. ‘Started already, have you? I suppose you’re doing it for my father. I didn’t expect him to waste much time, but this is obscene.’ Thea waited for a foot to be stamped, but it didn’t happen.

‘Your father?’ Thea was still magnetised by the familiar face of the other woman. Never a great fan of television, she nonetheless knew she had seen these features on a person from a prime-time drama series that had been running for years.

‘I’m Millie Wilshire. This is my grandmother’s house. I have to tell you that I find all this terribly upsetting. This is my friend Judith. Stop staring at her,’ she finished crossly.

‘Sorry,’ said Thea again, dragging her eyes from the
long Pre-Raphaelite face and the copper-coloured hair framing it. She looked at Millie, who had flyaway fair hair and a small pouting mouth. ‘Your father said you weren’t going to get involved. At least – that’s what I understood.’ She realised that she had only heard this through Drew, and that it could have become exaggerated in the telling. ‘Is there a problem with me being here?’

‘Problem isn’t the word. I absolutely hate the whole business. Gran should still be living here with all her things, instead of being carted off to a horrible home. And now it’s being emptied and her valuables sold – and it’s
wrong
. It’s a disgrace.’

‘As far as I know, nothing is going to be sold,’ Thea corrected her. ‘Your father just wants everything opened up and then listed, so he knows what there is. He’s probably thinking about insurance and practical matters like that. Hasn’t he discussed it with you?’

‘We don’t talk about it. He didn’t ask my opinion, so now he’s on his own.’ She made a childishly spiteful face. Thea had an impression of an attitude adopted in haste and subsequently regretted.

‘Have you been to visit her in the new place? It doesn’t sound so bad to me.’

Millie paused and wiped away a tear. ‘I can’t
bear
to. She’ll be so upset. It’ll break my heart.’

Thea had quite a few things she’d have liked to say to that.
It’s not your heart that matters
, was one. ‘Don’t you think she’d enjoy seeing you? If it’s as bad
as you think, she would surely appreciate a visitor.’

‘You don’t know anything about it. I have no idea who you are, but you obviously never met my Gran. She’s a proud old lady – she’d hate me to see her so sad and
reduced
. My father is a
criminal
for doing what he’s done.’

‘It happened to my grandfather,’ said Judith, speaking for the first time. Her voice was quite different from the one she used on TV. ‘He only lasted two months. The place killed him.’

‘See!’ said Millie, as if this proved something.

‘Well …’ Thea said, with no idea how she ought to respond. ‘Do you want to come in?’

‘Oh, no. I don’t want to see it without Gran here. I only knocked because I saw your car and thought somebody must be here.’

This sounded odd to Thea, given that the little road led nowhere and couldn’t possibly be passed accidentally. ‘You obviously intended to come here,’ she said impatiently. ‘Have you got a key? Were you going to come in? Otherwise …’
Why are you here?
she wanted to ask.

‘I thought I might catch my father, that’s all. He’s working around here this week, and I thought he might fit in an hour or two at the house, sorting things out or something.’ She sounded hopelessly vague.

‘But you knew he’d asked me to help? I mean – you didn’t seem very surprised to see me.’

‘He said he’d have to find someone to do it, if I
wouldn’t. I didn’t think it would happen so quickly. And where
did
he find you, anyway? Are you some sort of girlfriend? Did he spend the night here? Because he never came home. I had to see to his dogs and he
knows
he can’t rely on me to do that.’

Judith-the-famous-actor made a choked sound, as if the idea of Thea as Richard’s girlfriend was too appalling for words.

‘I am not any sort of girlfriend,’ said Thea with dignity. ‘I met him through my fiancé, who knows him because he—’ she stopped, afraid that a mention of Millie’s grandmother’s eventual funeral might be too much for her to cope with. ‘He recently met your relatives,’ she finished lamely.

‘Is he paying you to dispose of the stuff, then? Are you in house clearance?’

‘Not really – I told you, nothing’s being cleared out. I’m usually a house-sitter. Your father just wants the stuff looked at. He says nobody’s opened some of these boxes for decades. Long before you were born, anyway. It’s a big job. I won’t finish it for days and nothing’s going to be thrown away unless it’s utterly useless.’ She took a deep breath in an effort to suppress her exasperation. Why did this girl need everything to be said three times? She went on more calmly, ‘I think he’d be very pleased if you changed your mind about lending a hand. Have you got any brothers or sisters?’

Millie shook her head. ‘There’s only me. And Dad’s an only, as well. I always think that’s why we fight so much.’

Thea frowned at this remark, which made little sense to her. ‘Huh?’ she said.

‘I mean, there wasn’t anybody else to argue with. My mother never wanted to get involved. She said three was an awful number, and the only way to cope with it was for one person to stay detached. Very detached, is my mother.’

Judith laughed again. Thea was beginning to wonder whether she could actually function as a normal person, without a script to guide her. She had once before encountered a ‘celebrity’ during a house-sit; on the basis of that experience, she was prepared to believe that they were all inescapably peculiar.

‘Well,’ she said, wishing she was wearing rubber gloves, so she could brandish them to show how busy she was. ‘There’s a lot to do.’

‘Just remember you’re not to throw anything away,’ said Millie passionately. ‘It’ll all come to me in the end. I want everything to stay in the family.’

This was at least a slightly different tack. From concern for her grandmother, Millie was now showing some good old-fashioned self-interest. But again, it struck a false note to Thea’s ear. ‘How do you know you want it, when you’ve no idea what there is?’ she asked. ‘Have you any use for antiquated curtains or lace bedspreads? Have you spoken to your grandmother about what she might want you to have? Is there a will?’

Millie flinched. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she wailed. Then she seemed to gain more self-control. ‘I did used to try
sometimes, when I was younger. To find out what was in all those boxes and chests, I mean. She never wanted to talk about anything like that. She always managed to turn the conversation back to the other person. She’s very clever, you know. Educated. But you could never get her to talk about the past. Family history and stuff like that seemed to annoy her. And my father’s nearly as bad. He always says something like, “Best to leave all that alone. Remember Pandora’s Box.” He’s always on about Pandora’s Box,’ she finished crossly.

Thea was reminded of Drew’s new helper in his funeral business, and wondered for a moment at the choice of name made by the woman’s parents. Thea herself was something of a Pandora, she realised, with a rueful inward smile.

‘Richard said she doesn’t know I’m here,’ she said, suddenly uncomfortable with that thought. ‘I guess she wouldn’t like it much if she knew.’

‘Too right,’ said Millie. ‘She’d freak out if she thought anything was being thrown away or sold. But you’ve promised me that’s not going to happen.’

‘Well, of course it isn’t up to me. And I imagine
some
things will go. Old newspapers and magazines, for a start. And there are vintage clothes that belong in a collection or museum or somewhere.’

Judith’s eyes widened. ‘Can we see them? Our wardrobe people are always looking for authentic old clothes.’

Thea hesitated. Millie was family, which obviously
trumped a paid house sorter-outer – but Richard Wilshire’s instructions hadn’t covered such a situation. ‘You should probably check with your father,’ she said, again replying to Judith through Millie. ‘I mean – he seems to think you’ve refused to get involved in anything here. If you want to look through the stuff, then maybe you should be doing the job instead of me.’

Millie gave an impatient huff, like a rich wife with a dim-witted employee. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she snapped. ‘This is
my
family’s house. You can’t keep me out of it.’

‘I’m not trying to.’

‘So why are we still standing here on the doorstep?’

Thea closed her eyes against the powerful surge of frustrated helplessness. Again she’d have liked rubber gloves that could be torn off and flung on the ground. A gesture was certainly called for. She stood exaggeratedly aside and waved an arm. ‘I asked you to come in, several minutes ago. Be my guest,’ she said.

Neither young woman made a move. ‘There’s no time now. I want to find my dad,’ said Millie. ‘I’ve an idea where he might be. I’ll phone him to check.’

Thea wondered just how close were this father and daughter, who argued and fought such a lot? The daughter said unkind things about the father, and yet apparently knew his daily movements in detail. ‘Do you live with him?’ she asked.

‘Technically, yes. He’s got a flat in Stratford and I’m there some of the time. Like last night. But he didn’t
come home and I don’t know what to do with the dogs. That’s why I’m here looking for him.’

‘Where are you the rest of the time?’ Thea asked, wondering as she did so why she was wasting time on fruitless curiosity. It was a constant need – to understand how people lived.

‘I’m away a lot for work. On location.’

‘You’re an actor as well, then?’

Millie and Judith both laughed. ‘No way! I’m in sound with the BBC. Outdoor stuff, mostly.’

‘So that’s how you two met?’ Despite herself, Thea was curious about this unknown world.

‘Actually, no. We went to the same college. High Wycombe. Judith’s people were in Dubai much of the time, so she came to us in the holidays.’

‘Vacations,’ Judith corrected.

Millie rolled her eyes as if this was a recurrent argument. ‘Anyway, we’ve been friends since then. It’s like having a sister at last,’ she added sentimentally.

‘So …’ Thea was losing patience – with herself as much as with these girls.

‘All right. We’ll go. Just don’t throw anything away,’ said Millie yet again, and the two of them turned to leave, Millie holding a mobile, presumably preparing to call her father.

Thea watched them for a few seconds and then looked around for her dog. Normally Hepzie liked to listen in to conversations with new people, and this time was no exception, although she was doing it from
a short distance. She was stretched on a patch of grass under a small tree. ‘Come on,’ Thea ordered. ‘Back to work.’ An idle thought passed through her mind:
if Richard Wilshire hadn’t gone home the previous night, then where was he?

Before the dog could obey, a woman came across the small road towards her. ‘Sorry to trouble you,’ she said in careful tones, which instantly announced to Thea that this was someone who’d bettered herself and needed a voice to match her status. ‘But was that Mrs Wilshire’s granddaughter?’ She indicated the car that was turning left to go back towards the village.

‘Um …’ said Thea cautiously.

‘Oh, it’s all right. I’m a friend. Norah Cookham’s my name. I’ve known dear old Rita for over thirty years. Such a terrible shame, sending her off into a home. I saw you arrive last night. Do you mind my asking what it is you’re doing here?’

I’ll never get on at this rate
, thought Thea desperately. She smiled faintly and said, ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Then she explained as briefly as she could what Richard had asked her to do. ‘But I’m not removing anything from the house. Just making an inventory of the contents, that’s all.’

Norah Cookham was about sixty-five, nicely dressed, with exaggeratedly large spectacles, well-cut hair and a confident manner. Thea strongly suspected that she had been observing the encounter on the doorstep for several minutes, from a front window of
her house opposite. It was a magnificent house, with plenty of windows. There was a gravelled parking area containing a blue BMW. There were hundreds just like it across the Cotswolds.

The woman nodded, her eyes flickering in thought. Then she spoke in a jumble of comments that spilt out in a rush. ‘The thing is, you see – I don’t think Rita wanted to go. Not at all. I think she was coerced into it by that son of hers. Poor old girl never had a chance, with nobody to speak up for her. Where was that hopeless granddaughter when she needed her? Too late now, of course.
Much
too late to do anything about it.’

This little speech left Thea not knowing what to say. She could hardly argue the matter, quoting the various people who had given different opinions. All she felt was increasingly confused as to the nature and wishes of old Mrs Wilshire. Confused and rather worried. It made a difference, she found, to how she tackled the work set her. If the old lady was going to feel betrayed and violated by it, then that was horrible. But if she had willingly abandoned her house and its contents to her relatives to deal with as they saw fit, then that was perfectly comfortable. It seemed important to know where the truth lay, before she dived any further into the carefully packed and stored containers.

‘In what way is it too late?’ she asked. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, the deed is done, isn’t it? The vultures are going to descend and nobody can stop them.’

This was too much for Thea. ‘Mr Wilshire and Millie both seem extremely fond of her,’ she objected. ‘As far as I can see, they’ve both got her welfare at heart.’

‘Not
them
,’ said the woman. ‘I’m talking about the
others
. That Martin and his children. I remember them coming here when they were tiny, especially that boy – Brendan, he’s called. Rita spoilt him, having him to stay for weeks every summer with his little Arab friend. Thirty years ago, now, of course. But what does time matter when it comes to families? It all just sits there, doesn’t it, waiting to jump out and bite you.’