The Twisted Way (14 page)

After a filling lunch of steak pie and chips, followed by local apple pie, he looked round Enderly for a suitable property. A small black and white cottage had just been put on the market and was about the right size. It was quite near the pub, too. Osborne Smith Estate Agents, Everton. He remembered them, they had had a very good reputation in the area; he would contact them that afternoon. He booked into the Green Man for the night and arranged to meet the estate agent at the property early the next day.

The young estate agent arrived promptly, keen and brimming with enthusiasm. He need not have bothered, Robbie was already smitten. There were three bedrooms, one quite large, the others rather small but he could turn one into a study and the other one would be a guest room suitable for occasional visits from any of his friends, though his best friend had now moved to Scotland and the rest were busy family men. The bathroom was old fashioned but that could soon be remedied and he would install a shower room in the old pantry on the ground floor and another in the large bedroom. The lounge was spacious and the beams sturdy and well maintained. The last owner had knocked two small rooms into one and added a conservatory at the back. If he liked life well enough in Enderly he would definitely consider staying and might even sell his large house in Oxford. It was a beautiful house and he had worked hard to keep it in good order but he would not miss it. It was empty, no wife or children, just full of dusty books and one man rattling around in it on his own. He would play things by ear.

Robbie spent several weekends in Enderly, booking into the Green Man, during the time he was buying his cottage. That gave him time to chat to the locals and stroll round the familiar lanes reminiscing. One or two vaguely familiar faces appeared in the pub when he stayed there but there was not a hint of recognition by any of them which was gratifying. The Green Man was a comfortable old place and Robbie enjoyed reading the history of the pub and the surrounding area. He thought he might do some research in his spare time and even write a booklet about it.

One weekend he plucked up courage to wander up to Primrose House and look over the old rickety garden fence. It appeared to be in need of repair and a good handyman could soon do that. An elderly lady sat in a striped deckchair under a large umbrella by the side of the house, which was covered with a straggly pink climbing rose also in need of attention. He knew immediately that it was Janet. She had a sturdy wooden stick by her side and looked frail. Her once pretty dark hair was now a pepper-and-salt grey but her brown eyes were still large and kindly which was what he remembered from the time when he first met her. Emotions and memories, many he thought he had forgotten, almost overpowered him. He would like to take care of her now, as she and her mother had taken care of him so many years ago, or at least watch over her. A surge of affection rose up in his breast. Robbie had no family to care for and he decided that it could now be his mission in retirement to watch over his earlier benefactor’s daughter, help her in her house and garden in any way he could. He needed first of all to consider how to get to know her once again without being recognised.

Two months later Robbie moved into his cottage. He had attended the local sales and found some sturdy oak furniture which he enjoyed renovating. A local builder, Mr Jones from Brinton, installed the new shower rooms and modernized the kitchen. He thought Mr Jones was a fat greedy man but he had done a good job. The cottage would be easy to care for and he would no longer need a housekeeper, just a woman from the village to do a little cleaning and dusting. Robbie was enjoying the solitude and to his surprise did not miss academic life at all. He installed numerous bookshelves in the lounge and dining room and looked forward to reading the books that he had acquired over the years. Robbie ate most of his evening meals in the Green Man which avoided too much cooking, something of which he was not fond, and chatted a great deal with old Pat.

‘Have you thought any more about that gardening job?’ Pat asked, smiling slyly, and not really thinking that Robbie would be interested.

‘Well, yes but I thought the position would have been filled by now,’ Robbie said anxiously.

‘My nephew Jack has been doing a bit of work for her but he is off to Australia soon to a good job. Not many people round here want a job gardening. She’s a lovely lady, nice to work for, good pay for gardening and handyman work too, although I should think the pay doesn’t bother you,’ he continued in his strong local accent.

He looked at Robbie’s smart cord trousers and Saville Row shirts. An undulating grin lingered round the corner of his mouth.

‘I might be interested,’ Robbie said, his Oxford accent distinct and clear. ‘I’ve a lot of time on my hands, or will have when the cottage has been fitted out to my liking. Yes, I might be.’ His hazel eyes lit up in anticipation. Would Janet recognise him? He hoped not. ‘Does she mind dogs?’ he asked.

‘Dogs?’ Pat spluttered. ‘Well yes, I’ve arranged to adopt a collie called Nap from the Everton Collie Rescue Centre. Intelligent animal, gave up working for some reason. Only four years old. I wouldn’t want to leave it all day.’

‘She loves dogs,’ Pat said quickly. ‘I don’t doubt you could take it with you. She’s got a small Jack Russell puppy, about nine months old, snappy little thing but I should think you could handle him.’

Pat really had no idea about Janet’s views on other people’s dogs but if this chap would like to work for her he was all for it. Odd, though, that accent. It could be interesting if he took the job. He liked the man, well educated but not too toffee-nosed.

Pat took Robbie to see Janet the next week. He was right, she did not recognize him. She would have been overwhelmed with joy if she had known that her mother’s young evacuee had returned. He agreed to work in her garden two mornings a week and to drive her to the shops in her large old Rover once or twice a week, or as required, and do other odd jobs as a handyman when asked.

‘Feel free to bring your dog when you’re working in the garden,’ Janet said, ‘but I don’t think it would be wise to take him in the car. Jack stays at home when I go shopping. My housekeeper would be happy to look after him for you or he could stay in the garden when the weather is good.’

They discussed terms and a bargain was struck. It suited them both.

Janet was surprised that such a well-educated man was willing to work for so little pay. However, she looked forward to enjoying his company when he was not busy. She was lonely now and her heart lifted at the thought of having such a pleasant and intelligent man around to talk to sometimes. She felt she had a known him all her life but could not think why. His dog too was a gentle creature and would sit by her side while Robbie tended the flowers or the few vegetables that were now grown in the Primrose House kitchen garden. Jack liked the dog too and they romped around the lawn together. That was surprising, Jack did not like many other dogs, especially if he thought they were invading his territory. Janet was happier than she had been for a some time as she watched him work. Where had she met him before? Her memory was starting to play tricks upon her, it really was disconcerting. She wondered if her brain was shrinking. There was definitely something familiar about the man but she failed to draw any conclusions about what it was that she recognized in his character or where she might have seen him before.

Robbie enjoyed walking with his dog and exploring the many footpaths and the river bank round Enderly. He had forgotten how pleasant the countryside was. He frequented the local shop and chatted with other villagers who owned dogs. He was lucky. The dog had been well trained and was obedient to a fault. Poor thing, he thought, he is just like I was when I was that evacuee so long ago. He needs love and affection and he will get it now. Although he was a working dog and was not used to much kindness he soon attached himself to Robbie. The dog was adaptable and intelligent as are many of this breed. He looked very like Will Merryweather’s collie, with a white streak down his forehead, white blob at the end of his tail, neat white ruff and soft black border collie fur that brought back more good memories for Robbie who was happier than he had been for a long time. He had come home.

Janet Lacey shifted uncomfortably in her armchair, groaning as severe pain shot through limbs riddled with rheumatism. Her wrinkled face appeared perplexed as she looked round the lounge with weary eyes. She tried to imagine a way to escape from the room that was closing in on her but felt entangled and she could see no way out. Dreams had become her only means of escape, they were a way of seeing people she had once loved or hated. She made a strenuous effort to grasp her loved ones with outstretched hands but they had an unfortunate habit of slipping away just when they seemed within reach.

She looked out of the window and watched her gardener Robbie who turned round as though he sensed her gaze and waved before continuing with some pruning. He had been working for her for some years but she still did not know much about him. She knew that he was well educated, kind and considerate but although she had tried to find out more she had been unsuccessful and after a while she gave up trying. He was reluctant to discuss anything about his past but the feeling that he was familiar and that she had known him a long time ago remained with her.

A raucous ‘Cuckoo, cuckoo ...’ from the landing clock interrupted her thoughts. It jarred and irritated her as the strident screech pirouetted painfully through her aching head. Once it had been a welcome chirpy and pleasant sound. She must tell Joyce to send it to the local charity shop as soon as possible. It had become a ghastly thing with its gaudy painted red and blue bird that flew in and out of a small brown painted wooden door exactly on the hour, every damn hour, for too many years. Why had she put up with that awful sound for so long? Time was in any case running out for her like sand trickling through an hourglass ensuring hours, days and minutes became almost meaningless. The clock reminded her that she was a fragile human being and that it could make a terrible noise long after she was gone.

She heard her housekeeper’s light footsteps in the hallway. Joyce Skillet put her head round the door.

‘Are you all right, Mrs Lacey?’ ‘Yes Joyce. I was just thinking. Can you get rid of that horrid cuckoo clock? Get Robbie to take it to the charity shop in Brinton next time he goes, you know ... the one that supports the local hospice.’

‘Of course,’ Joyce answered. An axe might be more appropriate she thought but she was more than happy to oblige. ‘I’ll pack it up into a bag right now.’ Hurrah, the damned thing had annoyed her for years.

Janet gazed with unease at the exquisite pictures: a valuable collection of remarkable oil paintings and delicate watercolours arranged and displayed with infinite care against the pale antique white walls. There were some first-class paintings – a couple of Dutch and several French Impressionists that glowed with light and glorious colours. Hand-crafted ceramic vases and fine ornaments were displayed in an artistic manner on wooden shelving. Worcester porcelain had been her favourite, but the pieces that had once thrilled her with their aesthetic qualities no longer interested her. The sooner some of that junk, as she now thought of it, was sent to a sale room the better. Acquiring antiques and valuable china had been a hobby shared with her late husband John and these once coveted and eagerly sought after acquisitions had become nothing better than tiresome dust traps.

‘I like the Staffordshire dog in spite of it having been repaired with a false collar,’ she recalled John saying at the end of a busy and exhilarating day they had spent searching in local antiques shops. ‘Beautiful old Worcestershire pot too. Look at those colours, darling.’

‘Marvellous, sweetheart,’ she had replied, enjoying the feeling of his strong arms round her and the excitement and pleasure derived from their purchases.

She would happily smash them now and stretched out an arm to reach one of her walking sticks. The stick did not reach the mantelpiece or she would have swept some of them off on to the tiles below. She felt irritable and knew she was behaving in an irrational manner but no longer cared.

John and Janet had studied numerous books about antiques, now languishing in the bookcase in the lounge and ignored by Janet for the last twenty years. She would get rid of those too, she decided. Some poor fool may enjoy them.

They had attended many stuffy auctions to bid for items they liked. When they bought something John dug deep into his pockets to please his wife although he was in other ways careful with money, a trait that had been instilled since childhood. Money, he insisted, was no more than a necessary evil; love and affection were much more important. She now agreed with that sentiment with all her heart. He was right.

She caught a vague movement in her peripheral vision and felt her old dog press his cold damp nose against her arm. She experienced a moment of deep gratitude for the hound which had for many years been her faithful companion.

Janet again surveyed the clumsy settee and armchairs. What on earth was the point keeping that ghastly old furniture? The thick wooden legs made it heavy and difficult to move so that sooner or later Joyce, or the girl who came to help her some days, would strain her back trying to shift the damned things, all for the sake of a sprinkling of dust. Money and possessions were no longer of interest but as she sank back into the luxurious new armchair with the elaborate lifting gear that Joyce had recently acquired she had to admit that the comfort it afforded did give her some pleasure. It was nice to be miserable in comfort.

‘I can’t take John’s fortune with me when I die,’ she said out loud, and a worried frown deepened the already sculptured furrow on her forehead. That disquieting fact had often intruded on her thoughts in the last year or two. She and John did not have any children who would have wanted these worldly possessions and in any case, she thought, the furniture is far too old fashioned for today’s tastes. John had justified the extravagant expenditure by calling it ‘investment’. Investment indeed, how foolish they were. What was the value of such silly investment now!