EQMM, May 2012 (25 page)

Kelly trudged back to Meadow View to find removal men hurriedly unloading her possessions. Brett's mobile was still clamped to his ear, and big boxes full of her bits and pieces were strewn across the rear part of the ground floor, between the sofas and the steps to the gallery. By the time the removal men departed, she'd emptied a couple of packing cases and at last Brett was off the phone.

He wrapped her in his arms and lifted her off the ground.

"Time to celebrate!"

"I thought I would cook us a nice meal this evening. If you can pick up some food and champagne . . ."

"I read your mind!” he crowed. “A couple of bottles of Bolly are cooling in the fridge. I'm expecting a delivery van from the hypermarket on the retail park, it's due in an hour, bringing everything else we could possibly need."

"You're wonderful!” She kissed him hard, determined to push the image of miserable old Honoria out of her mind. “See the silver candlesticks I left on top of that packing case? They are heirlooms, they belonged to my grandmother."

"Very nice,” he said absently. “We can use them some other time, once you've given them a polish. There are fresh candles in a holder for the table in the delivery I ordered."

"You think of everything,” she murmured.

"Trust me, sweetie. It's all about getting the details right. Like I say, we have an hour before the van arrives, and I know just what to do in the meantime."

She nuzzled his ear. “Tell me."

Laughing, he swung her over his shoulder and carried her up the staircase, towards the mezzanine gallery and the four-poster bed.

"How does the underfloor heating work?” she asked later.

"Digitised utility control panel in the porch. I switched the system on before the delivery arrived."

They were lying on the bed, his long, long limbs entwining hers. As soon as they'd unpacked the food delivery, he'd hauled her back up to bed. She felt exhausted, and right now, the warmth of his flesh mattered more than the pleasure of intimacy.

"But the place is freezing!"

Amused, he said, “You're not wearing any clothes, that's why."

"Even so!” Her teeth had started to chatter. “Are you sure the heating isn't broken, if the house hasn't been occupied?"

Brett scowled as he disentangled himself from her. “Better hadn't be broken. Otherwise, I'll be on to my lawyer first thing tomorrow."

She jumped off the bed and threw on a gown retrieved from the packing cases. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her to start preparing their meal.

"What's this?” she said, pointing up towards the ceiling.

"Didn't I tell you?” He roared with delight. “How could I forget? Up there is the bell tower, and that is the pull-rope. We can ring our very own church bell!"

Kelly couldn't sleep. Perhaps it was the champagne. Brett had downed most of it, but she'd drunk more than usual, and although he started snoring the moment his head touched the pillow, her thoughts kept racing, and she found it impossible to slow them down enough to enable her to drift out of consciousness.

Cocooned by the duvet, her feet no longer felt like ice. During their meal, they had needed to resort to using her old electric fan heater. Even then, she'd worn a thick sweater. Brett, made of sterner stuff, remained in shirt sleeves. Although he'd grown up around Sydney's surfing beaches, cold weather amused him, as if it presented a challenge a strong young fellow must overcome as a matter of honour. Besides, Meadow View was fully insulated, and the roof weatherproofed with the latest materials. Not a single crack for the night air to creep in. As he drained his glass, he told her that the coldness was all in her mind.

Her imagination was too vivid, according to Brett, though sometimes she feared it wasn't vivid enough. It failed her whenever she tried to picture St. Lucy's as a place of worship. How many years had John Fryer played the organ here, to the deaf ears of people who were close to death? She fancied she could hear the strains of the “Toccata and Fugue” echoing in her brain. Did they often play that in rural churches? She could not recall the names of hymns from her childhood.

The darkness was absolute. Brett had been diligent about turning off even the standby lights on their electrical equipment. It was a ritual with him, as close as he ever came to religious observance. It wasn't about saving money; he could afford to keep lights burning all night, every night, but he insisted on doing his share to save the planet.

Her throat felt dry and scratchy after the alcohol. She should have drunk more water, and despite the cold outside the bed, she thought she'd better go downstairs and pour herself a glass. She reached out through the curtain and fumbled for the bedside light, but when she pressed the switch, nothing happened.

She swore under her breath. If the power supply had failed, she ought to check the control panel in the porch. Brett had mentioned some kind of fail-safe gizmo, but she'd better not disturb him. He would be furious if anything went wrong on their first night in his dream home.

That was the point, she realised, as she put one foot on the chilly floorboards. This was his dream, not hers. Not yet, anyway. Surely she could not allow old Honoria to ruin things forever?

Easing herself out of the bed, she pulled on the gown. Thankfully, its fleecy lining kept out the chill. Better be careful, venturing down those steps with open treads. It was all very well for Brett to brag about safety features, but when you could not see a thing, you needed to take care.

One foot in front of the other. No rush, she reminded herself.

At last she reached ground level. Her soles were freezing, but a couple of kilims were stretched out on the floor near the sofa. As she padded across them, something brushed against her cheek. Something cold and slithery; it was like being stroked by the thin fingers of a creature from another world.

She couldn't help jumping back, and the movement knocked over the pot containing the tall palm whose fronds had touched her. The pot smashed on the floor, and she screamed with the shock of it.

Not even Brett could sleep through that. The sound of movement came from upstairs.

"What's happening?"

He sounded groggy, no wonder after drinking so much. She wanted to call to re-assure him, but her throat had dried, and when she tried to shout, no sound came.

"Kelly, where are you?” He swore viciously. “What have you done to the lights?"

As she heard him clambering out of bed, she found her voice at last.

"Brett, it's all right!"

"Were you trying to get away?” he bellowed. “What did they tell you about this place?"

"Nothing, nothing.” Had she woken him from a savage nightmare? “It was only an old woman. . . ."

"You bitch, why did I ever think you would have the guts?” He sounded frantic, unreasoning.

She heard the crash of the bell in the tower. He must be pulling on the rope. His rage terrified her. She needed to get back to the mezzanine gallery and calm him down, but she dreaded cutting her feet on shards from the plant pot. Fear rooted her as the bell stopped clanging, and she heard him thunder around on the upper floor.

"I can't see you, but I know you're there!"

"Brett, why . . . ?"

Something happened, so quickly that afterwards she found it impossible to describe. A terrible crash ripped through the silence, and she knew at once that Brett had fallen from the gallery. Despite the rails and safety panels, it was easy for such a tall man to pitch over while flailing around in the dark, and plunge to the ground.

Only when she found the switch to restore the power, and bright lights banished the darkness, did she realise that one of the wooden packing cases had broken his fall. But it had not saved him, the impact must have been horrific. Worst of all, he had fallen head first, straight onto her precious silver candlesticks.

She dared not look as she dialled 999, but when the ambulance arrived, one of the paramedics threw up the moment he tried to shift the body.

His colleague told Kelly what even a man familiar with death found so shocking.

The candlesticks had taken out both of Brett's eyes.

As her strength returned, Kelly worked on a tribute. White lilies, white roses, and white gerberas, with green ferns for contrast. When she had finished, she thought it the most beautiful wreath she had ever made.

Time for her last journey to the village. She took a taxi from her flat, not wanting to brave the motorway. A “For Sale” sign stood outside Meadow View. The car stopped at the gate to the memorial garden, and she asked the driver to wait while she laid the wreath.

It did not take long for her to find the grave she sought. Not Brett's, of course. There had been a cremation in London, which she was too unwell to attend. No flowers, by request, but donations to his favourite ethical causes. Everyone agreed, it was as he would have wished.

Kelly felt a lump come into her throat as she stared down at the small black stone bearing John Fryer's name.

In the act of bending to lay the wreath, she halted.

John Fryer's wife had been buried with him. An inscription said simply that she had fallen asleep.

It was her Christian name, and the date of her passing, that caused Kelly to scream.

Honoria Fryer died three months before her husband.

Copyright © 2012 by Martin Edwards

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