Night Music (24 page)

‘But we do believe in evil spirits, don’t we, Henry?’ Asad snapped a rubber band round the notes.

‘I like to have proof before I believe in anything, Asad.’ Henry glared pointedly at his partner.

‘Oh, some entities are far too clever for that.’

‘And some people see things where there are none.’

Mrs Linnet had been distracted from the thread of her own conversation and was staring at them.

Asad closed the till. ‘It’s one of your more endearing character traits that you see good everywhere, Henry, but sometimes it blinds you to what’s really around you.’

‘I know exactly what’s going on, but I also believe in protecting oneself.’

‘“For evil to survive, all that is necessary is for good people to stand by and do nothing.”’

‘But you have no
proof
.’

Mrs Linnet put down her bag. ‘Have I missed something here?’ she said.

At that moment the door swung open, and all three fell silent as Anthony McCarthy entered. He was talking to someone on his mobile telephone, so did not see the glances that shot between them, or the way that the two men behind the counter began to busy themselves. Mrs Linnet remembered she had to buy some jam, and set off to search the shelves at the far end.

The boy ended his conversation and shut his phone. His woollen hat was pulled low over his long hair, and his clothes hung off him, as if he had bought them several sizes too large.

‘Good afternoon, Anthony.’ Asad smiled. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Oh. Yeah.’ He squatted in front of the cold counter, biting his lip. ‘My mum asked me to bring home olives, smoked turkey and something else.’ He grinned. ‘But I can’t remember what the something else was.’

‘You men,’ said Mrs Linnet. ‘You’re all the same.’

‘Cheese?’ suggested Asad.

‘Fruit?’ Henry held out a basket. ‘We’ve got some lovely grapes.’

‘Bread?’

The boy was so much like his mother, Henry thought. Same nose, same pleasant but reserved manner. Same curious mixture of defensiveness and pride, as if being related to Matt was cause for both celebration and shame.

‘She’ll kill me,’ he said cheerfully.

‘I’ll get the olives and turkey together,’ said Asad. ‘That might jog your memory.’

‘Is it definitely something to eat?’ said Mrs Linnet, who enjoyed a challenge.

‘Fruit cake? She likes that.’ Henry held some aloft.

Anthony shook his head.

‘Milk,’ said Mrs Linnet. ‘I always forget milk. And loo roll.’

‘Why don’t you ring her?’

‘I just did. That was the answer-machine. She must have gone out. It’ll come to me when I’m back in the van.’

Asad placed the two paper-wrapped parcels in a bag, and handed them over the counter. ‘Are you still helping your father up at the big house?’ he asked, as Anthony held out a note.

‘Sometimes.’

‘How is the work progressing?’ Asad chose to ignore Henry’s frown.

‘She’s asked us to stop for now,’ said Anthony. ‘I think it’s all okay. Mind you, I wouldn’t know. I just do what Dad says.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Asad. He counted out the change into Anthony’s hand. ‘And how is young Kitty?’

The boy flushed. ‘She’s . . . all right. As far as I know,’ he muttered into his collar.

Now Henry was suppressing a smile.

‘It’s nice that she’s got a few friends,’ said Mrs Linnet. ‘It must be ever so lonely for a young girl in that big house. I was just saying, her mother looks terrible—’

Anthony caught Henry’s eye as the door opened again and Matt came in. ‘What’s taking you so long? We were meant to be at Mr Nixon’s house fifteen minutes ago.’

‘I forgot what Mum wanted,’ Anthony said.

‘Well, son,’ Matt grinned, ‘what women want is one of life’s eternal mysteries, eh?’ Suddenly he seemed to realise whom he was addressing, and the grin faded. ‘Anyway, best get on the road.’

Asad smiled. ‘Mr McCarthy, I was just going to tell Anthony – I watched a very interesting programme last night about builders.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Matt was glancing at the door, as if he was in a hurry to leave.

‘It showed what happens when builders overcharge innocent householders, or invent jobs that don’t need doing. An appalling thing to do, wouldn’t you agree, Mr McCarthy?’

There was a sudden silence. Henry closed his eyes.

Matt came back in and shut the door behind him. ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean, Asad.’

Asad’s smile was steady. ‘Oh, I think you’re a more worldly man than you give yourself credit for, Mr McCarthy.’

Matt moved closer to his son. ‘It’s good of you to say so, Asad, but you’ll find nothing of that nature goes on in this village. Round here we trade on our reputations, as you know. Builders and shopkeepers.’

‘Indeed. We’re familiar with people’s reputations in this shop. But I’m glad you have such a positive view of things. Because you must agree that anyone who knew of such an act would feel obliged to speak out about it.’

Matt’s smile was steely now. ‘Asad, mate, if I had a clue what you were on about, I’m sure I’d agree with you. Come on, Anthony. We must go.’ The door closed with slightly more emphasis than usual, making the bell jangle for several seconds.

*    *    *

Matt’s ears glowed as he crossed the pavement. As he climbed into the van he was unable to keep his feelings in check. ‘Bloody cheek! Did you hear him, Ant? Did you hear what he was insinuating?’ Fear that his night with Isabel might be discovered made him more aggressive than he had intended. ‘Sanctimonious prick. I could do him for slander, talking like that. Bloody holier-than-thou – he’s always got on my nerves.’

The white noise in Matt’s head was so loud that he didn’t hear his phone until his son pulled it from the dashboard and answered it. ‘It’s Theresa,’ he said, baldly, and he too turned away from his father.

It was shortly before seven the following morning when Isabel spotted the dogs. It was Saturday, so there was no compulsory early start, but she slept only fitfully now, and had decided that the only way to clear her head was to get up.

How to explain the plans she had found in the yellow digger? They clearly related to the Spanish House, were some sort of template for the work Matt had been doing. They showed the bathroom in the space he had suggested, back to back with a new dressing room. Yet he had never mentioned architects or plans. They were too recent to have belonged to Samuel Pottisworth – and she found it hard to believe that her great-uncle would have wanted to embark on major building work, having neglected the house for decades.

But if Matt had paid an architect to draw them up for her, surely she should have had a say in what was suggested? The thought of discussing any of this with him made her feel unhappy again.

And then there was the money. She had never thought about it before Laurent’s death. It had been his domain, an abstract that existed to facilitate life’s pleasures. Family holidays, new clothes, meals out. Their casual profligacy shocked her now.

Isabel knew exactly how much money she held in both purse and bank account. Once she had paid Matt’s latest invoice, she and her family could survive on what was left for three months without any further income. Teaching three or four violin lessons a week would make it last longer. If they could get at least one room straight and a decent bathroom, they could let it, which would bring in up to forty pounds a week. But it was a big
if
. They were still washing in the kitchen sink and using the downstairs cloakroom. ‘I can’t see many tenants being keen on a tin bath,’ Kitty had remarked.

Isabel had been standing, half-awake, at her window, watching the ducks and geese rise into the air, honking at some unseen predator, when she saw dogs on the other side of the water, chasing each other in joyous circles.

Almost on impulse she pulled on her dressing-gown and ran down to the front door. She put on her wellingtons and half walked, half ran across the lawn to the lake, her arms wrapped round her against the morning air.

She stopped where the dogs had been, wet weeds brushing against her bare calves, her ears filled with birdsong. The dogs had vanished.

‘Byron?’ she called, her voice echoing across the lake.

He had already gone. He must have been on his way to work. And then, a short distance away, a head broke the water. A sleek dark head, and rising up from the liquid surface, a torso, bare to the waist.

He had his back to her so for a couple of seconds Isabel was free to watch him unnoticed. She was struck by the unexpected magnificence of him, the broad, taut shoulders that slid into the narrowed waist. He wiped water off his face, and she was flooded with conflicting emotions, awe at his physical beauty, then shame at the remembrance of the last male body to be close to her, and loss – of uncomplicated physicality, a hard male body against a yielding female one, pleasures she suspected she would never enjoy again.

He jolted as he caught sight of her, and she spun away, embarrassed to be caught staring.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her hair falling over her face. ‘I . . . didn’t realise you were there . . .’

He waded to the edge of the lake, seeming almost as uncomfortable as she was. ‘I often come here in the mornings to swim,’ he said. His clothes lay in a heap near a laurel bush. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

‘No . . . Of course not. You’re very brave,’ she said. ‘It must be freezing.’

‘You get used to it,’ he said. There was a short silence, during which the dogs raced past, tongues lolling. Then he smiled. ‘Erm . . . Isabel . . . I need to get out . . .’

She realised immediately what he meant, and turned away, cheeks flaming. How long did he think she’d been standing there? In her dressing-gown, of all things. Suddenly she saw herself as someone else might. Had Matt told him about the other night? Should she even be here at all? Isabel felt suddenly crushed. She pulled her gown around her. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’ll talk to you another time. I’ve got to get back.’

‘Isabel, you don’t have—’

‘No. I do. I’m really—’

It was then that she saw her son. He came out of the trees, holding up the edge of his sweatshirt, which was filled with mushrooms. ‘Thierry?’ she said, perplexed. ‘I thought you were in bed.’

‘I thought you knew,’ Byron said, behind her. ‘He’s been coming out with me every Saturday morning.’

She hadn’t had any idea. But Mary would have known if Thierry had been out in the wilds shortly after dawn. Isabel felt cold. Her silk dressing-gown was no protection against the damp air.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Byron, still waist deep in the water. ‘I wouldn’t have let him come if I’d known.’

‘It’s fine. If it makes him happy . . .’ she said, in a small voice. Thierry stepped forward and offered her the mushrooms, from which a pungent, earthy smell arose.

‘They’re safe,’ said Byron, ‘just chanterelles. I’ve been picking them for years. They’re off Matt’s land, but he won’t mind.’

At that name Isabel let her hair fall further over her face and stooped to take the mushrooms from Thierry. She made sure she had her back to Byron and heard splashing as he emerged from the water. To have him naked in such close proximity made her feel acutely self-conscious, so she muttered something inconsequential to Thierry, who was rifling through his haul with expert fingers.

‘Actually I needed to ask you a favour,’ she said to Byron, her back still to him.

He waited.

‘I need to use our land – live off it as far as I can. You said you could teach Thierry how to grow vegetables – well, perhaps you could show me what I can do for myself. I know you’re employed by Matt, and you’re probably very busy, but I’d be grateful for anything you can tell me . . . There isn’t anyone else I can ask.’

She tried to gauge his reaction, then blustered on, ‘I don’t want cows or pigs or anything, and I’m not going to be ploughing fields. But there must be something we can do to help ourselves.’

‘You’ll be getting your hands dirty.’

She turned round to find him in a T-shirt and jeans, his skin still visibly damp. Then she looked down at her fingers, protected for thirty years from the wear and tear of the everyday, already flecked with soil from the fungi. ‘They’ll get used to it,’ she said.

Byron rubbed a towel over his head, and surveyed the land around him. ‘Well, there’s your breakfast for a start,’ he said, then, pointing at the mushrooms. ‘You can pick those until autumn. And, if you’re not squeamish, you could probably feed your family for months.’

She waited.

A small smile played around his lips. When he smiled he looked like a different person. ‘Erm,’ he said eventually, and gestured at her dressing-gown. ‘You’ll not get far in that.’

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, suddenly laughing. ‘Oh. Five minutes. Give me five minutes.’

There was food everywhere, should you choose to see it, Isabel discovered during her morning with Byron. While Kitty stayed at home, chatting on the telephone, she and Thierry followed him round the garden and lake, Isabel trying to commit to memory everything he told her about the potential of her land, which felt now like a place of provision rather than a soul-destroying drain on her resources. ‘The easiest things for you to grow will be potatoes, tomatoes, perhaps onions and some beans. They’re all pretty foolproof in this soil. This whole corner you can use for rhubarb – it used to do well here.’

Thierry grimaced.

‘You’ll like it in a crumble.’ Byron nudged him.

I must make one, thought Isabel, but she had never asked Mary for the recipe.

‘Out by the stables there’s the old greenhouse. If you start your seedlings under glass, protect them a bit, you can put them out after the frosts. Cheapest to grow everything from seed, although this year you’ve probably left it too late. If we tidy this up,’ he pulled at some weeds near the red-brick wall, ‘you might even find a few raspberry canes . . . There they are. Cut those back to about here,’ he indicated with his thumbs, ‘and you should get a good crop. All these brambles you may as well leave for the blackberries.’

He strode along, increasingly voluble. Here, in his element, his watchful demeanour lifted, the odd smile drifting across his face. His voice was soft and low, as if unwilling to disturb his environment.