Hidden Cottage (11 page)

‘Muriel Fulshaw,’ she said, holding out her hand and giving his own a good pumping. She turned to her right, ‘And this is Georgina Preston.’

On the receiving end of a warm and engaging smile, the handshake this time was a lot less vigorous.

‘And last, but by no means least, this is Mia Channing.’

And absolutely by no means least, thought Owen as he shook the hand of a woman dressed in straight-legged jeans and a pale pink shirt with the cuffs turned back. She was easily the most attractive of the three envoys, doubtless here to check him out and to report back to the rest of the village.

‘We’ve brought this for you,’ the smiling woman called Georgina said. She held out a small booklet. ‘It’s the village magazine.’

‘We thought it might be useful to you,’ the older woman said. ‘I’m the editor and I can assure you it’s full of helpful contacts. Plumbers, builders, joiners, cleaners, babysitters, even secretarial help, you name it, it’s there in Little Pelham’s
Parish News
.’

‘Every eventuality covered,’ Owen remarked, flicking through and seeing the name of an undertaker’s in nearby Olney. He closed the magazine and tapped it against the palm of his hand. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’ Then deciding it might be fun to play along with the three women, he said, ‘I was just about to take a break from the unpacking and have a drink. Would you like to join me?’

He found himself directing the question at the woman called Mia, who from beneath her long lashes was looking at him with the most extraordinary violet eyes. She was different from the other two women – friendly enough, but she didn’t have their overtly cheerful, forthright manner. She was The Reserved One he decided, alongside The Smiley One and The Bossy One.

‘That would be very kind of you,’ she said, ‘but we really don’t want to put you to any trouble or give you the impression that we’re being . . .’ Her soft voice trailed off.

‘Being what?’ he asked.

The Bossy One roared with laughter. ‘What my wonderfully polite friend is trying to say is that she’d be horrified if you thought we were being nosy. Which we are, of course. Can’t have a new chap move in and not welcome him with a sound interrogation, can we? That really would be letting the side down.’

‘You’re sure we’re not disturbing you?’ asked The Smiley One.

‘Ladies,’ he said, in an approximation of Jack Nicholson welcoming the Witches of Eastwick into his life, ‘I’m at your disposal. Come through to the garden and you can begin your interrogation.’

He ushered them in, shut the front door and led the way, apologizing for the mess as they picked their way through the packing boxes. The removal van had arrived on Saturday lunchtime and while he had the bulk of the important and essential unpacking done, he still had all the fiddly stuff to deal with, along with ten boxes of books to find a home for. He knew without a shred of doubt that his guests would be avidly taking in what they saw in the way of his belongings, eagerly swapping notes when they left and putting together a profile of him.

‘Oh, a piano,’ observed The Smiley One, as he took them into the sitting room, ‘a grand piano at that. Do you play? Or is Mrs Fletcher the musician?’

A clever opening question, he thought with amusement. ‘There’s no Mrs Fletcher,’ he replied.

‘And do you actually play, or is it purely ornamentation?’ asked The Bossy One.

‘You mean for effect, to make me look more interesting? No, I do play. Not as well as I’d like, but who knows, maybe now I have more free time I might practise enough to improve.’ He knew the ‘free time’ comment would have them wondering, and before they had a chance to seize the opportunity to probe further, he opened the French doors and took them outside to the veranda where he’d replaced the old chairs the previous owners had left with his own table and chair set. ‘Now then, what can I get you to drink? Tea, coffee or perhaps a glass of wine? Or is it too early? What are the rules on drinking here in Little Pelham?’

The Bossy One laughed. ‘The rules are quite clear, as long as both feet are kept firmly on the ground at all times, any time is a good time.’

It was when he was in the kitchen, delving into one of the packing boxes he had yet to fully empty, that he had a sudden thought. The Bossy One – Muriel Fulshaw – was it possible that she was the woman he vaguely remembered moving into the village not long before he left, and into the larger of the only two detached cottages in Cloverdale Lane? His mother had described her as a ‘career woman’, saying the words with such hushed awe in her voice, the woman might have been the first female astronaut. ‘In other words a bloody know-it-all,’ his father had muttered, taking off his shoes and shoving them at Mum to polish. ‘Either that or a lesbian.’

‘What’s a lesbian?’ Owen had asked, looking up from his bowl of tomato soup, which he was stirring with his spoon, waiting for it to cool down.

‘Never you mind,’ his father had snapped. ‘And haven’t you got better things to do than sit around listening to other people’s private conversations?’

‘He’s having his tea, Ron, leave him alone.’

His father hadn’t liked women. He saw them as the enemy, something to be kept under control. But then he saw everyone as the enemy – the man he worked for at Cloverdale Farm was a thieving dictator who was robbing him of his rightful wages; the other farm labourers had it in for him; and the neighbours looked down their noses at them because they were outsiders. His paranoia was unstoppable and as a consequence he did everything he could to keep Owen and his mother firmly under his thumb. And isolated. He did it in small ways, such as deliberately not having a car so that they couldn’t drive anywhere, and he never gave his wife any more money than it would take to shop locally, and every item purchased had to be ticked off against the bill, which he insisted on being given, together with any change, thereby ensuring that Mum and Owen couldn’t hold back any money and sneak off somewhere on the bus. Initially he allowed Mum her cleaning job, so long as she handed over her wages, but then he banned it altogether. He claimed it was to keep them safe, that no one, absolutely
no one
was to be trusted.

The glasses unwrapped and hurriedly cleaned, a tray located and a bottle taken from the fridge, along with a dish of olives and feta, Owen went back outside.

‘Ooh, champagne!’ exclaimed The Smiley One. ‘How decadent for two o’clock on a Monday afternoon.’

Owen smiled. ‘I thought that since you’re my first guests, we should do things properly.’

‘I can see you’re going to fit in perfectly here,’ said The Bossy One. ‘Very well indeed.’

The glasses filled, he handed them round. ‘A toast,’ he said, sitting down, ‘to new friends.’

‘To new friends,’ they echoed, ‘and welcome to Little Pelham.’

He helped the women to olives and observed that The Reserved One had moved her chair ever so slightly so that she could look down the garden without straining her neck. A neck, which, he had to admit, was attractively long and slender and on full show due to her dark hair being tied up into a pony-tail. She was sitting so still, so straight-backed and perfectly composed she was like a Madonna painting. ‘I have a confession to make,’ he said in the growing silence.

They instantly stilled their glasses and looked at him expectantly.

‘Please don’t tell us you really are a footballer, as the children in Sunday school think,’ The Bossy One said.

He laughed. ‘I’m much too old to be that.’

‘You could be an
ex-
footballer,’ suggested The Smiley One. ‘But only recently retired, of course, because you can’t really be that old.’

The Bossy One snorted. ‘An ex-footballer who plays the piano? What tommyrot!’

‘Any other rumours about me?’ he asked, amused and curious. His friends had warned him that he would be the subject of much speculation and had dared him to lie, to invent a persona with a back-story so colourful it would have jaws dropping and eyes popping. But in truth his real identity would arouse sufficient curiosity without recourse to any embellishment.

They shook their heads.

‘Then I shall settle the matter for everyone,’ he said. ‘The thing is, it’s more a case of welcoming me back to Little Pelham. I used to live here, a long time ago. I came to live in Cloverdale Lane when I was nine years old and left when I was ten. I promised myself I’d come back one day.’ Looking at The Bossy One, he went on, ‘This would have been thirty-four years ago. Did you live here then?’

‘No. I moved into the village, ooh, getting on for twenty-two years ago. Why?’

He shook his head. ‘Just wondered if our paths might have crossed back then.’

The Smiley One laughed. ‘You’d have had no need to wonder; you’d have remembered Muriel all right. Once met, never forgotten. And in case you’re wondering, I’ve only lived here for five years and Mia . . .’ She turned to her friend, ‘Mia, how long have you been here?’

‘Ten years,’ she said. She raised her chin and looked at Owen and once more he was struck by the unusual violet colour of her eyes. He noticed the faint lines at the corners of her eyes as well as her full and perfectly defined lips. She was a beautiful woman, no question. ‘What made you make that promise to yourself when you were only ten years old?’ she asked.

‘A very good question,’ he said and while he paused to consider his answer, the other two women looked on keenly. ‘I was happy here,’ he said at length. ‘Happier than anywhere else I lived as a child. That seems reason enough for me.’ He was being a little evasive, but he didn’t care. The details would come out later, either when he was good and ready or when someone in the village remembered him and his family.

For the next twenty minutes he allowed himself to be put under the spotlight and answered their questions politely and as superficially as he could, telling them no more really than that he’d recently sold his business and was looking for a new direction in his life.

Eventually The Bossy One brought matters to a close. ‘Come on, girls, time we left this good man to his unpacking. And you, Georgina, have the Holy Terrors to collect.’

‘Holy Terrors?’ he asked, everyone now on their feet.

‘My sons, Luke and Edmund.’

‘How old are they?’

‘Five. They’re twins.’

‘They must keep you busy.’

‘Just a bit. My husband died three years ago and it’s been what could be described as a challenging time.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘She’s a marvel, she really is,’ The Bossy One said. ‘She’s coped splendidly. We’re all very proud of her. You said earlier, Owen, that there was no Mrs Fletcher; have you never been married?’

Feeling generous, he offered up another nugget of information about himself for them to pick over. ‘Yes. And now my ex-wife has a baby with her new husband, so I’ve seen how much hard work just one small child can create.’

Seemingly satisfied with his answer, The Bossy One turned to The Smiley One. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘have a mint to freshen your breath; we don’t want you turning up in the playground reeking of Moet, do we?’

The Smiley One grinned. ‘I can think of worse things to smell of.’

He took them through the house again and when he opened the front door, he saw he had another visitor coming up the tree-lined drive: the peacock. He was plodding along like a weary postman making the last call of his round.

‘Have you made the acquaintance of Putin?’ asked The Smiley One.

‘I didn’t know that was his name, but yes, he and I have met. Who christened him?’

‘Muriel, of course,’ answered The Reserved One. ‘She’s named them all over the years. We used to have Gorbachev and Brezhnev, but they died a couple of years ago.’

‘Don’t forget Yeltsin.’

‘Oh, yes, alas poor Yeltsin, he got run over.’

‘No peahens?’

‘We had Maggie,’ The Bossy One said, ‘a real firecracker of a bird, named after Mrs T of course.’

‘When I lived here as a boy there were five peacocks. But they didn’t have names.’

‘I soon changed that,’ The Bossy One said.

Owen imagined she’d changed a lot of things in the village since her arrival in Little Pelham.

‘Will we see you at the fete next Saturday?’ she asked. ‘Help is always appreciated and in my experience it’s the best way to get stuck in when one is new to a place. Or perhaps you have some unwanted items you can donate to the white elephant stall? Any books you can let us have, those are welcome too. Mia and the vicar’s husband are in charge of books, so pass them along to Mia if you have any.’

‘I’m sure I can find something,’ he said.

‘Excellent. You’ll find all the information you need about the fete in the parish magazine.’

‘I’ll be sure to look.’

He watched them leave. Mostly his eyes were on Mia Channing; tall and slender, she had a striking elegance about her. When they were out of sight he glanced down to see the peacock staring up at him. ‘What?’ Owen said.

The bird just stared at him.

‘That’s your thing, is it? You stare at people, do you?’

Tilting its head, the bird intensified his beady-eyed expression.

Smiling, Owen went back inside the house. A few days in the country on his own and he was talking to a peacock called Putin. What next for him?

Retrieving his glass of champagne from the table on the veranda and topping it up, he returned to the sitting room and sat down on the piano stool. He raised the lid of the piano, made himself comfortable, flexed his fingers and began to play, knowing from the outset that he wouldn’t be able to do the music justice. Rachmaninov’s Concerto No.2 was not for the faint-hearted, or for a piano that had recently come out of storage and had only just been moved into its new home. Nonetheless, he was in the right frame of mind to give the first movement (the Moderato) his best shot. His mother had only ever known it as the music used in one of her favourite films,
Brief Encounter
, and she used to love listening to him practise. She couldn’t hear it enough, she would say, which was just as well because it took him a very long time to learn it. Not that he could ever claim he played it as well as he’d like, but whenever he did, he was transported back to being a child and hearing it for the first time, when a tingle had worked its way up his spine and he’d caught his breath in stunned astonishment that anything could sound so incredible.