Deep Water, Thin Ice (18 page)

Lonely. He supposed she was or why else would she spend so such time with him getting dirty on the reserve? He knew quite a bit about loneliness himself but he’d found you learnt to cope with it and, having become accustomed to his own company for so long, he still had mixed feelings about Alex’s visits. He was scared of what they might lead on to; he didn’t want trouble. And he was surprised to find he liked her; she wasn’t the vain, overly sophisticated creature he’d imagined a classical singer would be like, all smart clothes and affected airs. On the contrary, she was straightforward, warm, impulsive and even sometimes downright pig-headed. She had a quick temper but had enough humility to apologise if she thought she’d gone too far. But liking her was a problem all its own, a can of worms he definitely didn’t want to open.

But he couldn’t quite bring himself to tell her to stay away so instead he refused to make it easy for her. ‘Well if you’re here,’ he’d say, ‘you might as well make yourself useful and do this for me.’ And he’d get her cleaning out the hens or going up the ladder to check on the nest boxes and clear them out, or filling the feeders he had hanging from odd tree branches. He was surprised she never demurred. He watched her sometimes from a distance, meticulously carrying out his instructions, getting dirty and then fastidiously trying to brush herself off. There was almost an air of penance about her, as if, by doing these dirty jobs which she found so distasteful, she was trying to repay some debt. And, to judge from the shadowy sadness which she carried around her like a mantle, it was about as effective as throwing in spadefuls of sand to dam a flowing river.

He usually made them coffee and toast when they stopped to rest, and they’d chat about the reserve, or he’d answer Alex’s questions about the wildlife. She rarely mentioned anything personal so he’d been taken by surprise when, on her last visit, she’d started talking about her dead husband’s ashes which, apparently, she had in a casket at the Hall.

‘The thing is,’ she said, stirring her coffee round and round, watching the instant coffee granules slowly dissolving off the surface of the liquid, ‘I think I ought to bury them. It’s not right to keep them with me. Maybe it’s selfish.’

She’d glanced up at him expectantly then but Mick didn’t answer. He got the impression that the comment was the start of a much bigger issue, like the first corner of a huge piece of submerged wood which, despite being repeatedly pushed down below the surface, insists on returning to bounce around on the top of the water. He sensed pain and confusion and he was determined not to get involved; he didn’t want to be confided in. He found himself wondering bitterly if she confided in Theo bloody Hellyon.

Alex stirred the coffee round again, removed the spoon, sucked the coffee off it to stop it dripping and then placed it down on the wooden table. She rubbed ineffectually with her index finger at a couple of water stains on its surface and pulled a face as the dust smeared at her touch.

‘But, if I did bury them, I’m not sure where,’ she went on. ‘I couldn’t face another formal service and, you know, consecrated ground…none of that meant anything to Simon. But there’s an old ruined chapel up on the other side of the River Kella…Do you know it?’ She looked up at him again. She’d stopped wearing the dark glasses and those very blue and compelling eyes of hers were hard to avoid.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Up on the cliff near Dolphin Point.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think it’s up to you.’

‘Well, of course, but as a place?’

He hesitated to answer but couldn’t stop the next remark from coming out rather sharply.

‘If he didn’t care about consecrated ground, why a chapel?’

‘Because…someone…told me he liked it up there.’

‘Oh, well, if
someone
did. But the cliff’s eroding up there.’

‘Is it? I didn’t notice. But anyway, the chapel’s a long way back from the edge.’

‘So why did you ask me then if you already know better?’ he suddenly snapped at her.

‘Hey, which side of the bed did you get out of this morning?’ she’d retorted. ‘Whatever’s rattled your cage, there’s no need to take it out on me. I only asked.’

‘I’m not here to give out advice. It’s nothing to do with me.’

‘Oh, excuse me.’

He’d regretted the words almost as soon as he’d said them but he didn’t have Alex’s facility for apologies and she’d immediately left anyway, abandoning her barely-touched coffee. He’d been bad-tempered for the rest of the day.

Now Mick heaved the bag of seed in through the shed door and slit it open ready to transfer it to metal drums away from the invasive teeth of rodents. He found himself listening out for his unwanted visitor. It concerned him that he thought about her so much. Since that last visit, he’d speculated about her relationship with her late husband and how the man had died; he’d heard mixed reports. And now he wondered if he’d put her off ever coming back again. Then he heard Susie’s distinctive welcoming bark and felt the tainted pleasure of knowing that he’d hadn’t.

*

‘I don’t know,’ said Theo. ‘Perhaps it’s too late to be throwing so much money at the old place. It’s been starved of affection and attention for so long; maybe the old girl isn’t sound any more. You might be wasting your money. I mean…I’m not trying to be nosey…but you can’t have money to burn and property can eat it up before you know it.’

Alex looked at Theo in surprise; it wasn’t what she’d expected him to say. ‘The old girl’ was Hillen Hall and she’d just been describing to him her plans for a new kitchen. They were sitting either side of a small table in the corner of The Black Goose, a country pub turned smart restaurant in the nearby village of East Walkham. It was Alex’s thirty-ninth birthday and, Theo, back home from a short crewing job round the Isle of Wight, had insisted on taking her out. Her guilt and confusion at the thought of a formal date with him had been quickly overcome by his easy persuasion. ‘You can’t spend your birthday alone,’ he’d insisted. ‘And think of all the meals you’ve thrown together to feed me while we’ve been decorating. I owe you.’

He’d turned up at the Hall bearing a gift. He’d bought her the carving of the avocet from the gallery in the village. She’d commented on it to him a few days previously, saying how much she liked it, just stopping short of mentioning that she knew the person who had done it. Now it already stood between them, this black hole of evasion, and she backed off from disturbing it, sure it was unimportant, uncomfortable because it was unlike her to be intentionally secretive. In any case she’d promised Mick, and even if he was a moody, awkward devil at times, she didn’t want to stop going down to The Grenloe. ‘What a lovely thought,’ was all she said, taking the bird and putting it to stand on the table and admire it, and her opportunity to mention her visits to the reserve slipped away and disappeared.

She’d taken ages to get ready, trying on outfit after outfit, unsure what would hit the right note. It was such a strange feeling after all these years, getting ready for a date, and she tried to play it down in her own mind, desperate not to feel the weight of the occasion. Now they’d nearly finished their meal and she’d relaxed. There was nothing different about the event; they were just together in a different place. Theo had been the same as always, telling her amusing stories about the people he’d met on his last trip, complaining about the food again, casual and just himself.

‘I’m not going to just throw money at it,’ she answered him now indignantly. ‘But the investment would surely be worth it. And I can’t believe you mean that. You don’t think a house like that which has survived for so many hundreds of years is just going to fall down, do you? I know it needs work doing on it; the rest of the windows need replacing and there are tiles missing off the roof.’ She wondered why she was arguing the point like this when she still hadn’t actually decided what she was going to do. Still, it didn’t harm to talk it through. She sat back in her chair and grinned. ‘Who knows what evils might be lurking in the loft?’ she jokingly went on. ‘Houses always need things doing to them, especially old ones. But even so I don’t think it’ll come crashing down round my head.’

Theo grinned too.

‘I wasn’t suggesting it would. Just that you shouldn’t go spending your money without knowing what you’re getting into.’

‘Maybe I’ll get it surveyed. I suppose I should have thought to do that in the first place.’ She leaned forward to pick up her glass and drank the last mouthful of wine. ‘I’d have thought you’d be pleased to see Hillen Hall smartened up. Or did you hate living there?’

‘Not at all. I liked it. But I was a child. What child wouldn’t enjoy having all that ground to run around in? And old houses have hiding places. It was fun. But I didn’t have to worry about wet rot or dry rot or any other kind of rot.’ His face became serious and he stared at the unused cutlery on the table, fiddling with it. ‘I guess my father bore the brunt of all that. He was a worrier.’ A muscle twitched in his cheek. He looked up at her and gave her a wan smile. ‘I think it’s one of the things which helped to make him ill.’ Alex reached across and touched his hand a second, registering her understanding. Theo flicked her a grateful smile.

‘I saw your mother in the village yesterday.’ Alex withdrew her hand and sat back. ‘She was getting on the ferry for Southwell.’

‘She goes a couple of times a week. She’s a creature of habit; does the same things week in, week out: same days for washing or cleaning or baking.’ He grinned. ‘Fish for dinner on a Friday, church on Sunday morning. As far as Southwell is concerned the only thing that changes is the time of the ferry and, much as she’d like to, even she can’t control the tides.’

Alex thought of the smell of whisky and the shaky hands but wasn’t sure how to bring the subject up.

‘I’d never be that organised,’ she remarked lightly. ‘I generally do things on the spur of the moment. It used to drive Simon crazy.’ She paused. ‘Is she happy?’ she asked suddenly.

Theo’s expression clouded.

‘Mother? Yes. Why shouldn’t she be?’ he asked.

Alex shrugged.

‘No reason. I just…’ Under Theo’s baleful gaze she hesitated. ‘…When she came round to the house, she seemed kind of…wistful.’

His eyebrows lifted.

‘Wistful? That’s not a word I would ever have used to describe my mother, I must say.’

‘Well, preoccupied might be better.’

‘Ha. She was probably thinking about all the jobs she’d got lined up to do at home. Or what food she should send me to stop me being starved.’

Alex laughed, relieved at his change of tone. For a moment there she thought he looked almost cross.

When he took her home she invited him in for coffee but he resisted, claiming the need to be up early the following morning.

‘Anyway, I mustn’t outstay my welcome,’ he said, standing outside the kitchen door where she’d let herself in.

‘Don’t be silly. Of course you couldn’t.’

‘No?’ He put a hand to each side of the door-frame, leaned forward and kissed her softly on the lips. By the time she’d realised what he was doing he’d moved away again and smiled. ‘That’s good to know. Sleep well, Alexandra Munroe. Sweet dreams.’

She watched him as he walked away, watched him turn as he reached the edge of the drive and blow her a kiss. Then he was gone and the place felt curiously empty. She put a couple of fingers to her lips and smiled.

Later on, sitting in front of the dressing table mirror, brushing her hair, she saw the light from the bedside lamp bounce off her wedding ring. She put the brush down and turned the ring on her finger. Eleven months on and still she wore Simon’s ring. She stared at it, turning it round and round, round and round. Then slowly she twisted it up and off and slid it onto the third finger of her right hand.

*

Theo felt his mobile phone vibrate in his pocket and glanced across at his mother who was sitting beside him on the sofa. It was Saturday afternoon and they were watching a DVD of Breakfast at Tiffany’s at his insistence. But Sarah had fallen asleep. He’d tried controlling how much whisky there was available to her in the house but it didn’t seem to have made any difference to how much she appeared to be drinking. She was obviously keeping hidden supplies somewhere; he just hadn’t found out where yet.

The phone vibrated again and he eased himself to his feet, carefully trying not to wake her, walked out into the hall and put the phone to his ear.

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘Theo?’ said a low voice.

‘Yes. Helen?’

‘You can’t come over tonight.’ A note of urgency coupled with the need for secrecy made Helen’s voice fizz at him through the speaker. ‘He hasn’t gone away. He’s got man flu and is draped all over the sofa. He’s being a pain in the ass.’

Theo almost laughed. She sounded so scared and so cross.

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m down in the gallery, in the kitchenette at the back. But you can’t come here,’ she added urgently. ‘God, I’m so miserable not to see you.’

‘We’ll do it again, don’t worry.’

‘Yes, but
when
?’ Frustration made the last word come out much louder than she’d intended and there was a pause. He could sense her getting herself back under control. ‘He won’t be away again for a couple of weeks,’ she hissed. ‘This is an awful way to have to carry on.’