Secrets
Freya North
We all have our secrets. It’s just some are bigger than others…Joe has a beautiful house, a great job, no commitments – and he likes it like that. All he needs is a quiet house-sitter for his rambling old place by the sea. When Tess turns up on his doorstep, he’s not sure she’s right for the job. Where has she come from in such a hurry? Her past is a blank and she’s something of an enigma.But there’s something about her – even though sparks fly every time they meet. And it looks as though she’s here to stay…
Freya North
Secrets
Copyright (#u8d54ff8a-df34-5284-8722-ade7955cf65c)
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
1
Copyright © Freya North 2009
Freya North asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Ebook Edition © 2009 ISBN: 9780007325801
Version: 2017-11-28
Acclaim for… (#u8d54ff8a-df34-5284-8722-ade7955cf65c)
pillow talk:
‘Fast paced, page-turning and full of endearing, interesting characters.
I defy anyone who doesn't fall in love with it’
Glamour
‘Warm, sexy, satisfying’
Heat
‘Darkly funny and sexy – literary escapism at its very finest’
Sunday Independent
‘The novel's likeable central characters are so well painted that you feel
not only that you know them, but that you know how right they are
for each other… the beauty of the North Yorkshire countryside
contrasts convincingly with the bustle of London’
Daily Telegraph
‘North charts the emotional turmoil with a sexy exactitude’
Marie Claire
‘With a storyline packed full of teenage nostalgia and
old-fashioned romance, this is a must-read’
Woman
‘A heart-warming and witty romance’
Bella
‘North has excelled in making her latest novel fresh and exciting.
Pillow Talk is an absorbing novel which will capture and hold your full attention from the opening pages … North keeps the reader guessing to the very end’ Irish Tatler
love rules:
‘Freya North has matured to produce an emotive novel that deals
with the darker side of love – these are real women, with real feelings’
She
‘Tantrums, tarts, tears and text-sex… what's not to love about
this cautionary tale for true romantics?’
Heat
‘A distinctive storytelling style and credible, loveable characters…
an addictive read that encompasses the stuff life is made of:
love, sex, fidelity and, above all, friendship’
Glamour
‘Plenty that's fresh to say about the age-old differences
between men and women’
Marie Claire
‘Sassy, feel-good chick lit with a good sting in the tail’
Cosmopolitan
home truths:
‘An eye-poppingly sexy start leads into a family reunion laced
with secrets. Tangled mother/daughter relationships unravel
and tantalising family riddles keep you glued to the end’
Cosmopolitan
‘You'll laugh, cry, then laugh some more’
Company
‘Freya North manages to strike a good balance between drama, comedy and
romance, and has penned another winner in Home Truths… touching, enjoyable’ Heat
‘An addictive read with a realistic view of home life, sisterhood and identity crisis’
Prima
For Jessica Adams, Sarah Henderson, Kirsty Johnson – and Jo Smith –
for your unconditional and bountiful support, love and laughter.thank you xxx
I could not get tae my love if Aa wad dee The waters of Tyne cem betwixt her and me Sae thor Aa wad stand wiv a tear in my ee Till the Smoggies
(#ulink_22b39a31-0d72-5803-a331-a8ec447f15a4)cem and built a bridge Ower them for me
(regional version,
‘Waters of the Tyne’, trad.)
(#ulink_22b39a31-0d72-5803-a331-a8ec447f15a4) Geordie moniker for Middlesbrough folk
Table of Contents
Copyright (#u16c465b8-80a5-5a94-a48e-d0b79018feb3)
Praise (#ue0f50f76-ed36-5a5e-8d14-515238b4537b)
Epigraph (#u653818ce-a3fe-5f13-9a13-cca5e9628c31)
Resolution (#ue6b27a2f-1cad-5baf-8679-3c4ad195fe64)
Prologue (#u6dc6a51b-c41e-547c-9855-eb3c8bb5b92a)
Chapter One (#u1470d33a-013b-5cb5-926c-ce06468a2166)
Chapter Two (#u9e5e7fb4-f379-5f0d-891c-0c69d3b8f4af)
Chapter Three (#ueaf5d01f-7483-5d13-bbf0-e44c40eb88d9)
Chapter Four (#u491662af-280d-5ab5-93d5-62aab46e0a85)
Chapter Five (#u24cd1cff-35a5-5ce4-82a2-b5116a1c88ac)
Chapter Six (#u765444c3-d334-5526-b979-4c6aeefede37)
Chapter Seven (#ude74ad06-59df-5752-b540-05f6a94330b2)
Chapter Eight (#u031f43aa-e5b4-59b3-ae5c-ce4df5452c10)
Chapter Nine (#u3da9de25-406e-5b35-ba54-87afe6159083)
Chapter Ten (#u03c04995-24d3-5582-9109-abd56b30cfc0)
Chapter Eleven (#u5505d511-30e3-57ae-bad5-64a942dbe54f)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-one (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-one (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-one (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-four (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Freya North (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
RESOLUTION (#u8d54ff8a-df34-5284-8722-ade7955cf65c)
1 resolve, determination, purpose, dedication, 2 promise, commitment, pledge, undertaking 3 answer, solution, disentanglement, sorting out, 4 Captain Cook's ship for his second (1772–5) and third (1776–9) voyages of discovery. James Cook, born Marton, Middlesbrough, 27 October 1728. Died Kealakekua Bay, Hawaii, 14 February 1779.
Prologue (#u8d54ff8a-df34-5284-8722-ade7955cf65c)
House-sitter wanted.Sea views.Immediate start.
As Tess and Em crept soundlessly to a corner of the kitchen and crouched down to make themselves as small as possible, Tess chanted the words to herself. It helped to block out partially the banging at the front door and, like a mantra, it gave her some composure.
The banging, though, continued, almost in time to her quickened heart rate, but louder. Stronger.
Go away.
But she had known they'd be back. They were hardly likely to have had a change of heart since their last visit, never to return. She knew that. Of course she did. However, she had not anticipated them coming back quite so soon, certainly not on a Thursday afternoon, the day she didn't work. She put a smile on for Em and they continued to crouch in silence.
House-sitter wanted.
House-sitting sounded so much better than crouching. After one final aggressive barrage, the banging ceased at last, though Tess and Em remained in situ for a cautious minute or two longer until they were quite sure that the people at the front door had gone. Em didn't object, she was used to it by now, content to follow Tess's lead – going along with the silence when Tess put her finger to her lips at the sound of banging; appearing not to notice if Tess answered the phone in a cod American accent. Being silent and feigning absence were two things that Tess and Em did well. Quite the double act. After all, Tess has managed to make it all a form of entertainment, both to lighten the load and fill the loaded silences between banging or ringing. Sometimes, she'd even run through her repertoire of daft faces.
Let them bang all they bloody want – I stick out my tongue and pull my fish face at the lot of them.
Today, though, those six words had provided the diversion. House-sitter wanted. Sea views. Immediate start.
No more banging for today. They'd gone, for now. Tess and Em hugged as they always did when they were sure the coast was clear – in a congratulatory manner. It reminded Tess of the stories her late grandmother had told her of blackouts during the Blitz. The feeling of triumph, of personal success to have come through bombardment unscathed.
‘If ever two people deserved cake, it's you and me, Em.’ She passed Em a slice of chocolate roll with a chipper wink. She kept her anxiety hidden from view.
It is only when she's by herself later that evening that Tess relents and lets her pent-up fear creep around her like an odourless, toxic gas, chilling her to the core like a soundless scream. It has her sweating and short of breath; alternately pacing the confines of the small sitting room or paralysed to the spot. It's a detestable feeling but like severe turbulence during a flight, she has to believe she can weather it and that it will pass. She tries desperately to stifle sobs because if she starts she won't be able to stop. She blinks hard and breathes deeply and eventually she feels calmer. She closes her eyes for a short while, concentrating hard on the colour of nothing behind her eyelids. When she opens them, they alight on the newspaper. She'd found it on the tube home from work yesterday. Right now she is happy to be seduced by the serendipity that, amongst the scatter of all the free London papers in that carriage, the one on her seat was the Cleveland Gazette. She thumbs through it with a sense of urgency, as if the offer she'd chanced upon the day before, which has lingered with her all day today, was so good it would have been snapped up by now and disappeared from the listings.
But it is there. The house with the sea views in need of a house-sitter.
She knows the words by heart, but it is the phone number underneath them which now looms large, turning the abstract mini-poem into a real proposition. Tess knows well enough how today's newspaper can wrap tomorrow's fish and chips. But what if yesterday's newspaper had escaped such a fate? If she'd saved the paper from a brief and greasy end at the chippie – in return, might yesterday's Cleveland Gazette become her map for tomorrow? Did it matter that she didn't know exactly where Cleveland was? It sounded far-flung from North London – and any distance from here and all that had happened, had to be a journey worth making.
I'm crazy, she thinks, as she dials the number. I've been driven completely mad.
Joe considers not taking the call. But once the ringing stops it starts up again.
‘Hullo, my name is Tess and I'm phoning about the ad,’ someone is saying. ‘Could you tell me more?’
He pauses. Isn't he on the verge of offering the position to Mrs Dunn? ‘Well, I just need someone to oversee the old place when I'm not here. I work away from home mostly.’
‘It's old?’
‘It was more a term of affection. Detached. Victorian. Six bedrooms.’
‘Oh.’ Tess wonders if affection can ever be detached. ‘Where is it, exactly?’
‘Saltburn.’
‘Saltburn?’
‘On the outskirts of town, the Loftus Road. The pay isn't much, I'm afraid, but I'm offering a long-term position. Hullo?’
Tess is computing the information. Sea views. Immediate start. House-sitter wanted. Wage provided. ‘Is there a garden?’
‘Of course there's a garden.’
‘You didn't put it in the ad.’
‘No – I thought “sea views” would clinch it.’
‘Is it a big garden?’
‘Not compared to some round here. But sizeable compared to others. A good half an acre. Hullo? Are you there?’
‘Currently, I have a patch of paving stones, mostly cracked. And they're not mine anyway.’
Joe pauses. Suddenly he likes the idea of someone tending his garden who's only had a patch of paving stones that don't belong to them anyway. Perhaps he won't phone Mrs Dunn just yet. ‘Do you want to come and see it?’
‘I'll leave first thing and be with you whenever.’
‘From?’
‘London.’
‘London! You do know you're talking a five, even six-hour drive on a Friday? And the weather's meant to be vile tomorrow even for March?’
‘That won't matter to me. Thank you so much. You won't regret your decision.’
Joe frantically replays the conversation to see just when he'd even implied he'd given her the job. But he can't very well ask her now, nor can he object – she's already hung up.
Tess's grandmother used to say, think before you speak; she also used to say, look before you leap. Tess can imagine how her grandmother would be tutting at her now. She hadn't actually thought about what she was going to say or what she was hoping to hear when she had phoned the number under the ad. What she does know now is that, at a time when she's desperate to run away from the banging and the fear that peppers her life in London, six words in the classified section of a paper from somewhere far away have offered her a way out.
She still isn't quite sure exactly where Cleveland is. She's never heard of Saltburn-by-the-Sea. But there's a six-bedroom house there, in which she is going to be paid to stay. It might just be the answer to her most impassioned prayers, it might be the solution to her problems. It might assist her need to right wrongs. It could well be a safe-house for her secrets, somewhere to lie low until she is back on an even keel and able to start over. It is a long way from London and that's a start. She has to believe that she can do something about the people who come banging at her door. Had Tess known running away could be such a good idea, she'd have considered it much sooner.
Chapter One (#u8d54ff8a-df34-5284-8722-ade7955cf65c)
There was something about the way the small red hatchback slunk onto the gravel of the drive, coming to a shuddering standstill as if it was giving up, as if it was about to conk out, that reminded Joe of an animal in need of a rest; some poorly-kept packhorse exhausted from an arduous day's work. He watched through the window of his study, on the ground floor, through the tangle of honeysuckle branches which clambered around that side of the house and provided useful camouflage at moments like this. Nothing happened for quite some time; whoever was in the car was staying put. Eventually, the car door opened and Joe watched as a woman climbed out. She stared and stared at the house while still clinging to the open door as if it was a shield. She ducked back in and Joe was prepared for her to drive away, for this woman not to be the Tess of the bizarre phone call last night. She looked nothing like the people who had house-sat for him in the past. But now she was out of the car again, walking around to the other side of it, opening the door, leaning in, apparently rummaging around.
And then, when she reappeared, Joe thought, oh, for fuck's sake.
But by now, she was walking slowly towards the front door.
He considered disappearing elsewhere in the house, feigning not to be at home. But even from this distance and through the network of honeysuckle, her look of awe placated him. Suddenly he wasn't staring at his worst nightmare, but at a scene straight from Thomas Hardy. From his vantage point, he watched as she stood timidly on the weathered slab of doorstep like a peasant girl braving the estate of the wealthy squire. Joe hastened to open the door before she rang the bell, fearing the old mellow clang would all but finish her off.
‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Are you Tess?’
Still he couldn't be absolutely sure. Over the phone she'd sounded older, somehow bigger and physically rather more nondescript. If this was Tess, he hadn't accounted for strikingly amber eyes darting from behind a privacy screen of an overgrown fringe. Despite the droop of mousy brown hair, he could see that her features were fine, her skin porcelain pale. Her lips were pursed, as if to imply something on the verge of being either said or swallowed. She was not tall and her slimness diminished her further, yet she stood square and defensive. Joe wondered why she would drench her frame with a drab hooded sweatshirt which fell to mid-thigh length, emblazoned with a college crest that made good design whether or not the establishment existed. He saw that her jeans were old but too scruffy to be acceptably vintage and her trainers were scuffed, with laces that were inexcusably dirty. He thought about first impressions, and why she would choose to turn up looking like this. Previous house-sitters arrived very spruce and professional. But then he glanced at himself and thought he'd better change the subject.
‘Well, Tess, I'm Joe.’
From his brusque manner on the phone, she had him down as a suit-and-tie dour businessman. At any rate, she'd envisaged him much older, sterner. She hadn't considered his wardrobe to contain jeans and a well-worn grey woollen turtleneck. Nor that he'd answer the door shoeless, in socks of the same yarn as his jumper and similarly bobbled. Least of all did she expect quite a handsome face, even if it did need a shave. Good hair, she noted, for someone in his – say, late forties? Thick, short, salt-and-pepper. Dark eyes. Dark brows. Arms folded nonchalantly.
But her arms were obviously too full to shake his hand so he hadn't offered it. Instead, they nodded at each other. She looked up at him through her fringe and he tried not to look down on her with an expression that was too patronizing. But then he regarded the reality staring him in the face – and once again his dominant thought was, oh, for fuck's sake.
‘You never said anything about a child,’ he said.
He watched her freeze, shift the infant higher on her hip, suck in her bottom lip and knit her brow. Oh Christ, she's not going to cry, is she? But her eyes darkened as a scorch of indignation crossed her cheeks.
‘And you never said anything about a dog,’ she retorted.
Wolf had been standing casually at Joe's side. Tess glanced at him with distaste, noting that his coat appeared to be fashioned from the same material as Joe's jumper and socks. Or was it vice versa.
‘I could be allergic.’
‘And are you?’
‘No. But that's not the point.’
‘Maybe I'm allergic to children.’
‘No one's allergic to children.’
‘Do you not like dogs?’
‘That's not the point either.’
‘Wolf is a soppy old thing.’
‘Does he come with the job, then?’
‘Yes. Sometimes I take him with me. Not if I'm abroad, obviously.’
‘Does he like children, though?’
‘He prefers Pedigree Chum.’
Tess looked at Joe. It was a bad joke but the timing was perfect. She clamped down on a smile, wanting to cling onto the upper hand and invent a moral high ground despite knowing that actually, she was in the wrong. Because she hadn't, on purpose, told him about her eighteen-month old daughter, had she? Whereas he simply hadn't thought to mention his enormous dog.
‘Shall I come in?’ she asked more jauntily, because she was suddenly aware of the threshold still between them and feared the job offer might be rescinded.
Joe looked at her; wondered again how old she was. Thirty? Or possibly late twenties and just tired?
‘Sure,’ he said, ‘come on in.’ He turned and walked into his house.
Nice doggy, he could hear her saying in a voice that was for the baby's benefit and not Wolf's, nice doggy. He heard the infant attempt to emulate her mother's words. It was a very odd sound to hear in the house. Joe had been the last baby here. And that was forty-five years ago.
He thought of the bustling Mrs Dunn from the agency, and her doughy forearms. In comparison, this Tess was a slip of a thing. The flagstones would surely defeat her. The flag-stones were not baby friendly. The flagstones alone could be a deal breaker, to say nothing of the draughts. The rickety banister. The occasional whiff of gas that no one had been able to find or fix. The water that sometimes ran brown. The pipes that bickered loudly. The mutant spiders. Wolf. The wasps that returned to the eaves each summer and fell about the house drunk, drowsy and aggressive each autumn. And then Joe thought how Mrs Dunn would not have tolerated any of this and he looked over his shoulder at Tess standing there in his entrance hall, all wide-eyed in inappropriate teenage clothing. Her baby: wild curls, rosebud mouth and beautifully, perfectly, appropriately dressed. And Joe thought that there was something about Tess's poise and the fact that she'd taken the job without it being offered and had made the long journey in that old red jalopy at a moment's notice, that suggested to him she was here to stay. That it would take more than wasps and a Wolf and water that runs brown to see her off.
‘Tea? Coffee?’
‘Tea, please,’ said Tess.
‘And the – what's your daughter's name?’
‘Em.’
‘Full stop? Or, as in –?’
‘As in Emmeline.’ She saw Joe raise an eyebrow. ‘You were thinking Emma or Emily like most people. She's named after my grandmother.’
‘And was Granny known as Em?’ It came out wrong, Joe could hear it. It implied no lady of that generation would tolerate such a diminutive of the name. ‘I just meant – it's unusual. It's pretty. Shame to shorten it.’
‘Well, you can call her Emmeline,’ Tess said a little tartly. ‘I like to call her Em Full Stop.’
‘OK, I will,’ he said. ‘Emmeline, what would you like to drink?’
‘She's eighteen months old.’
‘Don't they drink at that age?’
Tess paused. It was like the Pedigree Chum remark and she was unsettled to feel simultaneously annoyed yet amused.
‘Emmeline,’ he said very slowly, ‘what would you—’
‘It's OK, I have –’ and Tess contorted herself to keep the child on her hip while she delved around the large holdall dragging on her shoulder. ‘Somewhere in here –’ Finally, she retrieved a colourful beaker with a spout. ‘She's fine.’
Joe looked from mother to daughter. Silently, he agreed with Tess. Emmeline was fine. The house might be fine too, with the two of them. Certainly, the set-up wasn't what he'd had in mind, what he'd had before, but if Tess agreed to Wolf, then he'd agree to Emmeline.
‘Doggy.’
The adults swung their attention to the child.
Clever Em, he heard Tess whisper and there was pure joy in her voice.
The tea was good.
‘Builder's tea,’ Joe said. ‘We don't do gnat's pee in this house.’
They sat opposite each other, with more than just the expanse of a particularly large farmhouse table between them. On it was a veritable mountain range too, complete with landslides and crevasses fashioned from books and mail and newspapers and documents and something scrunched up that appeared to have foodstuff on it. Tess eyed it all.
‘What exactly does a house-sitter do?’ she asked. ‘Am I to tidy and clean then?’
Joe tapped the side of his mug thoughtfully and Tess sensed he wasn't thinking of an answer, he was thinking of the best way to make it known. ‘Well, it's not really a defined role like house keeping. For me, I need someone here for times when I'm gone – and I'm away for work a lot for varying periods of time. In the past, I've had people stay for a few weeks – and that hasn't really worked. That's why I want someone who can stay long-term. I don't want you buggering off after a month. You need to really learn the ways of this house. If lights aren't switched on, they soon enough don't come on at all when you need them to. If rooms are left untended, a staleness hangs in the air that is troublesome to clear. The water, especially, needs to run. The freezer tends to frost up. The sofas go hard and lumpy if they're not sat on. At this time of year, some of the doors can warp and can't shut or others can't be opened. So, unlike some house-sitting jobs you may have done, I don't designate quarters for you. And so – yes, a little light cleaning is part of the deal. And you're OK about the pay?’
It struck her that he presumed she'd house-sat before – whereas she'd always assumed house-sitting was more a brief opportunity than a profession. A stopgap. But he said that this position was potentially long-term. She hadn't thought of that. Perhaps she should have packed more. And then she thought she might make quite a good house-sitter. She thought how there might be muck and mess in her life but she'd always kept her surroundings tidy and clean. She thought back to the flat at Bounds Green that she'd left just that morning and as she did, she felt a plug of lead plummet straight through her, buckling her a little and causing a blear to glaze her eyes. Landlord, nasty man, breaking and entering. Finding her gone. Chucking her stuff out with the rubbish in disgust, even though she'd left her TV set behind in the vague hope it might go some way towards the outstanding rent. Perhaps he'd called the police.
‘Excuse me, are you OK?’
Tess looked up from having been miles away, 250 miles south, and she was momentarily surprised to see Joe and not Landlord, nasty man, sitting there. She nodded and kissed Em, over and over. She gave Wolf an energetic rub, discovering that his coat was far softer on the hand that it was on the eye.
‘I'm just tired – it was a long haul to make my way here.’
‘Well, here you are – and I have work to crack on with so how about the guided tour?’ And, as Joe led the way out of the kitchen, into the utility room, through to the boot store before retracing the route back to the expansive entrance hall, he thought to himself that there was something gently peculiar about all of this, something oddly compelling. However, his prevailing feeling was that it was OK for Tess and the child to be here, for the knackered red hatchback to take up a little patch of the sweeping driveway alongside his Land Rover. For a baby's voice to enliven the stillness of the old house, adding variety to Wolf's low woofs and whines. For a woman's touch to dissuade the dust. For Wolf to have company. And, on the occasions he himself was to be home, for Joe to have company too.
‘Am I allowed to watch your TV? I had to leave mine in London. Do you have a record player and am I allowed to play it?’
Joe stopped and turned. ‘Most house-sitters I've known bring their own stuff – but if you want to watch my TV or play my music, or play your music on my equipment, you are welcome.’
Though he was friendly and obviously at ease, Tess found him slightly detached; he met her questions with a quizzical expression, a rather aloof response. Tess's mind scurried over possible rules that a more experienced house-sitter might want to establish.
‘Should I keep my food separate from yours? Is there a shelf for me in the fridge? Are there times when the heating or hot water isn't to be used?’
‘Start running a bath early,’ Joe advised, ‘the hot water takes a while. And I'd much rather you availed yourself of whatever's in the fridge or cupboards – as long as you restock when I'm due back.’
It occurred to Joe that this woman had never done this before. Some previous house-sitters had even brought their own compact fridges. Most brought their own televisions. They didn't enquire about his hi-fi. They all but stipulated private cupboard space in the kitchen. They usually marked up their food with stickers. And then he thought to himself that, if she didn't really know what was expected of her, then he could change the rules and alter the conventional set-up. He quite fancied doing things a little differently. He was rather amused by the idea of coming across her watching something on the box that he'd planned on viewing himself anyway.
There were times – they were infrequent and it had taken some time for her to feel comfortable in acknowledging that they existed – when Tess really would rather not have Em around. Not permanently, of course, but just for those moments she'd prefer to be on her own. Meeting this marvellous, vast old house was one of them. Room after room where she craved time by herself to drink it all in, see the view from that window, look back into the room and regard it from this aspect or that corner. Run her hands over the wood panelling. Feel how cold, or warm, the marble mantelpiece was. Let her fingers bounce along book covers – the way she used to bounce a stick along the wooden fence which ended at the wall heralding her grandmother's house. Instead, she found herself having to assess rooms in a glance, attempting to absorb what Joe was saying while trying to be low-key and even-toned when repeating, don't touch, Em, don't touch. Come back here. No, no – put that back. Careful!
It wasn't that Tess actually minded Em touching or exploring; rather, she didn't want anything to jeopardize this job being hers. This job now seemed more than the answer to her present predicament; it seemed to be the embodiment of long-held dreams. This house was a haven, if a slightly unkempt one.
And if I look after it, it'll care for me.
‘Sorry?’ Joe was looking at her.
Tess, appalled that she might have spoken out loud, quickly turned to her child. ‘Em! Mummy said be careful.’
‘This is the other sitting room,’ Joe was saying as he led them into a room whose walls were dark red, with two sofas of well-worn brown leather, curtains half drawn. Tess wondered, if you sat still enough, whether no one need know you were there at all.
‘When do you use this room?’ she asked.
‘TV,’ Joe said. ‘I know it's naff – but look.’ He opened a cabinet door to reveal a sizeable flat-screen set.
‘Do you have CBeebies?’
‘What's that?’
‘It's a kids’ channel,’ Tess said, brushing the air as if her question was unimportant and an affirmative answer was no big deal.
‘Probably,’ said Joe and he zapped at the remote control. ‘Is this it?’
‘No.’
‘This?’
‘No.’
‘How about this?’
‘No. It doesn't matter. It's not a problem. I brought DVDs that Em likes. If that's OK, I mean. If you have a DVD player? Oh – and if it's OK for me to use it?’
‘Sure. Why not. See here – and you need this remote control. Now, come through. This is another loo. And this is a room that – well – I just keep stuff like this in. Quite a useful room, really – though it's become a bit of a dumping ground. Now – upstairs. This is my floor – I'm down there. But I keep the hoover in this room here. Slightly extravagant – and actually, there's another hoover downstairs. But I'd say life's too short to lug a lone vacuum cleaner up and down all these stairs.’
‘Or to use either of them much at all, really,’ Tess remarked, eyeing fluff and stuff on the floors. She caught Joe looking a little taken aback. ‘That's what I'm for,’ she said brightly, ‘that's why I'm here, it's part of the job, isn't it – and I quite like hoovering.’
Joe's expression was odd but he walked on ahead and up a flight of stairs before she could read too much into it.
On the second floor were three further bedrooms and a large bathroom, floored in shiny black-and-white chequered lino. There was a smaller bathroom on the landing going up to the top floor where another two bedrooms, without beds, were in the eaves. There was more attic space too, he told her.
‘Take which you like,’ Joe said, walking back down to the second floor, ‘I don't mind. Mostly the house-sitters squirrel themselves away right at the top.’
‘Is that where I should be?’
‘I said – take which you like.’
‘Sorry.’ She paused. ‘Really?’
He shrugged. ‘Of course.’
‘Could I take the front room on this floor?’
‘Sure.’
Tess returned to it. A bay window. A window seat. A double bed, stripped to the mattress, with a dark wood bedstead. Nearly but not quite matching chest of drawers and wardrobe, both almost fitting into the alcoves either side of the fireplace. Cherrywood perhaps. A similar colour to the design decorating the tiles of the fireplace.
‘Which one for Emmeline?’
And Joe had to repeat the question because Tess was looking into the wardrobe as if she could see right through to Narnia.
‘Which one for Emmeline?’
‘Em?’
‘A bedroom – for Emmeline,’ Joe said. ‘Which would be suitable for her?’
‘She can have her own bedroom?’ Tess said, flabbergasted. Joe looked flabbergasted to the contrary. ‘She can bunk up with me,’ Tess said, as if availing herself of anything more than Joe had already offered her would be obscene. ‘She has done so far. I have a travel cot. Well – it's her only cot.’
Joe shurgged. ‘Whatever suits you. But you're welcome to the other rooms. To house-sit successfully, you need to feel at home.’
At home, thought Tess when Joe had gone downstairs leaving her to gawp at her leisure.
This house is a home.
And she sat down and looked around her and thought, how did I come to be here?
How on earth did I come to be here?
Chapter Two (#u8d54ff8a-df34-5284-8722-ade7955cf65c)
Joe could hear her, clattering around. He listened to his furniture being moved and he wondered if he minded. When all went quiet he reckoned she was making the beds – he'd heard the yawn of the linen cupboard door being opened repeatedly, as if she was searching for the best thread-counts. The other house-sitters had always come so prepared. Some had come positively armoured, especially those from agencies. They never seemed much interested in his offer of a home from home – instead, they turned up bringing portable habitats with them – boxes and suitcases of pillows, towels, lamps, TVs. One young man brought his own cutlery and a bespoke wooden container for it, the Scottish lady brought her own armchair and Joe doubted that she ever sat in one of his. It was as if they pitied Joe or disapproved of the contents on offer and so constructed their self-contained pods within the fabric of his home. Which was probably why they were happy to move on – however long they stayed, the charms of the old house never seduced them and Joe ended up thanking them far more than they thanked him.
He had helped Tess in with her bulging suitcase and numerous bags that appeared to contain solely the accoutrements required by a toddler. There was an iron on the passenger seat of her car and a box on the back seat billowing wafts of the Cleveland Gazette. She told him it contained two bone-china cups and saucers and would he mind if she put them in the kitchen. They were her Grandma's, apparently, and made tea taste its best. The footwell in the back was taken up with carrier bags full of vinyl LPs, which Joe said she was welcome to unpack in his sitting room. There were also three taped-up cardboard boxes in her boot. He'd offered to bring these in – but she'd said, they'll stay there, thank you very much, as if they were in disgrace.
That was a couple of hours ago. He hadn't seen her since, but she'd been calling down to him at various intervals. Checking it was OK for her to swap the lampshade in ‘her’ room for the one in the top bedroom. And did he mind if she brought in the bedside drawers from the other bedroom. And could she move the single bed in Em's room through to the furthest bedroom because the iron bedstead concerned her and the paint was probably lead-based. And if she moved the Persian rug from that furthest bedroom into Em's room, would that be all right? Because then the iron bed wouldn't put unsightly dints into it and anyway what a shame for such a lovely rug to be stashed away in an unused bedroom. Joe really didn't need the details, or the rationale, and in the end he shouted from the bottom of the staircase, mi casa su casa– sorry, but I really need to crack on with my work. And she called down, oh! sorry! And he called up, don't worry. And she called down, OK! sorry again! And he didn't call back up. But he found that he did wait until he heard the floor-boards creaking again before he closed the study door.
He saw to his emails, organized his diary, looked through his file and then went to sit at his drawings. It was always the same when he next looked at his watch. He tapped it, held it to his ear as if it had malfunctioned and could not possibly be telling the correct time. It was gone nine o'clock and it was very quiet upstairs. Even in the silence, another's presence in the house was palpable and a few minutes later it became apparent that it was so quiet upstairs because actually she was downstairs, in the kitchen. Help yourself, he'd said earlier and he assumed she was now doing just that. He was tempted to wander in on the pretext of a cup of tea and was about to do so when a glance at his drawings and their glaringly overdue incompleteness drew him to his desk.
But then she started singing.
He wished she wouldn't.
Not that she couldn't hold a tune.
Just that it was a distraction.
He switched the radio on and tuned it to the World Service and turned the volume down so the voices sounded hushed, reverential, as if in a library. He concentrated on the plans in front of him, his initial freehand drawings on torn scraps Blu-tacked around the large sweep of graph paper; notes and measurements and calibrations pinned around his desk.
It was odd having young female energy in the house. It was unexpectedly compelling, really. New and different. But of what concern was it to him? He'd be away, mostly. France at the beginning of next week. London. Possibly the Far East later in the year. A trip to California in the late autumn. Various interludes in Belgium in between.
Concentrate.
It's only the house sitter finding her way.
Tess was making an omelette when she caught sight of a photo of Joe propped against a milk jug on the Welsh dresser. She had wondered whether she should offer to cook for him too, or if that was more a housekeeper's job than a house-sitter's. She decided not to. Anyway, there were only two eggs left and he looked like a three-to-four-in-an-omelette type of bloke. She'd make him a cup of tea instead, builder's tea not gnat's pee, and leave it outside his study door, knock once and then disappear. Perhaps she'd make it in one of her own teacups. Or would that be rude? Would that suggest she thought his crockery not good enough? Or was she being slightly ridiculous? First she needed to have her food and a sit-down. Her back was nagging – she'd never driven such a distance and then manoeuvred so much furniture before unpacking her life to make things just right for Em, now sound asleep in her new room. She took her plate to the table, picking up the photo of Joe on her way. He was younger then; his hair not so flecked. Bare-chested and tanned, wearing baggy khaki shorts, work boots and a hard hat. There was a bridge in the background. San Francisco, perhaps. He was smiling, looked ecstatic, actually. Probably grinning at a girlfriend, Tess thought. They probably swapped positions and somewhere there's a picture of her in front of this bridge too. Is it San Francisco? Perhaps not – isn't the Golden Gate Bridge a reddish colour? She put the photo back. Glanced at a postcard in pidgin English from a Giselle Someone, postmarked Brasil a couple of years ago. Tess liked to browse recipes while she ate but there appeared to be no cookery books, only an old National Geographic on top of the pile of unopened letters and discarded post on the kitchen table. She tapped Joe's chest in the photo. Bet you're one for the ladies, she thought.
She sat down and gazed at the food on her plate. She marvelled at how Em had been so compliant, eaten well, welcomed sleep so amiably for once. Tess smiled at the thought of her daughter snuggled down for a really good night's sleep. In a house. Fingers crossed she'd sleep through tonight – Tess knew she was in desperate need of a few hours’ total rest herself and she wasn't sure how Joe would react to Em's midnight or dawn chorus. Or Wolf for that matter. She felt she'd done a good job making Em's room homey and suitable; finding a low bookshelf in one of the attic rooms on which she'd arranged Em's toys invitingly. She'd vacuumed the Persian rug and placed it centrally so that Em had somewhere warm on top of the bare floorboards on which to play. She'd tacked up the paper border she'd bought ages ago but had never fixed to the rented walls in London. Funny how she'd thought to bring it with them. She'd used sellotape, lightly because she planned to ask Joe if she could do it properly, with paste. She'd ask him tomorrow because by tomorrow she suspected there'd be a lot more to ask him. She'd make a list in bed.
The omelette tasted so good. She hadn't eaten all day because her car had needed fuel more than she had and there had only been money for the one of them. She thought she was possibly romanticizing the omelette – she'd been so hungry even stale bread would have tasted ambrosial. She looked around her and realized she liked this kitchen so much because all the stuff was owned, it all belonged to someone, it belonged here; it hadn't been bought on the cheap for tenants past, present and future. Mi casa su casa, he'd said. Don't mind if I do, Tess said under her breath as she took her plate to the sink. Conversely, she also sensed that she could relax because if the phone went in this place, it wouldn't be for her. And no one could come thumping on this front door for her because they couldn't know that she was here. She was a lifetime away from London and it was a relief. As she boiled the kettle, she thought how she was making tea for Joe and a new life for herself.
She hovered outside his door. She could hear a radio. She didn't even know what he did for work, what it was that took him away for periods long enough to require a house-sitter. She didn't even know his surname. She put the mug down and knocked gently, twice. Heard huffing and panting and was taken aback for a moment before she remembered Wolf.
It was not yet ten o'clock; too early to turn in though she was fantastically tired. However, recalling how the bath had taken an age to run for Em, Tess decided to start it now. While it was filling, she would make a final check of the car. It looked a little lonely, very small, out there on the gravel drive.
‘Thank you for bringing us here in one piece and on a single tank,’ she whispered. In the boot, the three cardboard boxes. She poked one accusatorily, as if it was animate. There was probably little call for the contents up here in Saltburn but Tess could not have left them behind. She might hate them and level blame against them, but there was a little bit of her inside them too. She dug around in the two smaller boxes, retrieved a pot from one and a tube from the other. ‘Made With Love,’ she muttered, as if reading the label for the first time. She was about to twist the lid off one, a moisturizer, but resisted when she remembered the twelve-month shelf life once opened. Anyway, she'd packed a tub of Nivea which was still almost full. The thought of it brought her grandmother to mind. She'd have given Tess short shrift. Put Tunisian what on my face? she'd have said. How much do you charge for one of those tubes, did you say? Good God, girl, she'd have chided, what's wrong with Nivea?
What's wrong with Nivea indeed? If only I'd asked myself that question in the first place. Suddenly Tess was tearful. One of her earliest memories was deep in that iconic navy-blue pot. Her grandmother's face slathered with the thick, white, gently-scented cream, used in such quantity and applied in such a way that it coated her face in little peaks like a miniature mountain range, like Christmas cake icing. Her skin had been very good, Tess reminisced and, looking back into the boxes in the boot of her car, she liked to think that her grandmother might have liked her hand-cream at least. Made with love. Too bad she didn't live long enough to see any of it. But there again, thank God she hadn't lived to witness the current mess of it all.
I miss her still.
Tess shut the boot gently and walked back to the house, quickening her pace as she wondered if she'd been lost in thought long enough for the bath to have overflowed.
Inside, however, the pipes were still clanging and protesting at having to deliver another bath and the water was retching in fits and starts out of the tap so Tess went for a walk through the house again. At last, she could take time to run her fingers over things, see what books were on the shelves, find out which channels were available on the TV, feel the heaviness of the curtains, sniff at the fireplace to tell whether it was real or gas, test out all the chairs and sofas and find the one most comfortable to her. She pressed her face against windowpanes to look outside from every window even though it was dark.
The house really was immense – not just because she was conditioned to thin stud-walls subdividing the meagre space characterizing the London rental market. Here, the doors were definitely wider, the furniture larger, ceilings higher, floorboards broader, stairs longer. She could imagine turning cartwheels in the expansive hallway when she had the place to herself. She wouldn't need to talk in a whisper when Em went to bed, she could sing at the top of her voice and not wake her.
Sitting curled in a cavernous armchair in the grander sitting room, Tess invited the notion of a dog sprawled at her feet – even if it was to be a giant, mangy old thing. She knew little about dog breeds, but she very much doubted that Wolf was anything other than a mutt. Surely no one would actively breed dogs to look like that? There was something of the greyhound about him, but with none of the requisite grace in either conformation or movement. His colouring suggested German Shepherd but his coat was fashioned along his back and the top of his head with the wiry curls of a terrier, while limp-long stringy sections, which alluded more to an old mop than any breed, hung down from everywhere else. He had one blue eye and one brown, which gave his face a lopsided look enhanced further by him being apparently unable to keep his tongue in his mouth. It was like a flap of chewed leather always lolling out on one side or the other. His owner said he was harmless. Perhaps it would be a good experience for Em too.
Tess thought, why have a dog if he has to leave him here so frequently? And then she thought, why choose a dog who looks sewn together in big clumsy blanket-stitch from a melange of various elements animate and inanimate? Do owners grow to look like their dogs – or aren't they meant to be attracted to breeds that look like them? Well, there was little physical correlation between Wolf and Joe – the dog really was as eye-poppingly ugly as his owner was easy on the eye. Opposites attract, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, don't judge a book – Tess ran through her grandmother's sayings as she left the sitting room to check on her bath. Then she hovered at the top of the stairs, wondering whether to call out goodnight, two flights down.
What's he doing in there? Why is he working at this time on a Friday night? Why does he need a house-sitter anyway – what is it that takes him away? Shall I call down – is that the correct etiquette?
She ran the palm of her hand over the newel post as though it were a priceless orb. There was no female presence in this house, that was for sure – the dust and drabness attested to that. Hence the need for me, Tess thought, grateful.
As she soaked in the bath, alternating one big toe and then the other up inside the tap which was a long-held habit she found meditative, she wondered if running away hadn't just been easy, but actually a very good thing to have done. It was going to be a better life for Em, with all this space and fresh air. Tess told herself she was hurting no one and no one would miss her, really. She'd texted a couple of her friends and told them she'd be in touch, that she was going away for a bit, added the mandatory Txx so that they wouldn't worry. Tamsin would worry but she'd known Tess long enough to trust her and root for her. They'd probably assume she was going to Spain on a long overdue visit to her father. Or up to Edinburgh to see her older sister. She sank down in the bath, up to her chin. It was hot and her tired limbs needed it. She'd used a squirt of her shampoo for bubbles because she hadn't wanted to help herself to Em's all-natural, camomile-scented hypo-allergenic bath-soak with added baby-sensitive moisturizer. Tess's supermarket own-brand shampoo suited her needs just fine. Appley and fresh and satisfyingly foamy. What a day. All that driving. Here now – a new place. Unlike anywhere she'd ever been. Unlike anything she'd ever done. Sometimes – especially when she'd been low or trapped awake by her worries – she'd wondered about such houses but hadn't really expected them to exist.
When she finally climbed into bed half an hour later, she started to worry about the enormity of what she'd done, that she was in a huge house in the middle of nowhere and no one knew she was here apart from the man downstairs tucked away in his study. How stupid to have thought she could drive away from London and leave her secrets in the flat in Bounds Green. Then she told herself she was too tired to think but tired enough for her thoughts to run wild. Be sensible.
She turned on the bedside light, planning to formulate a list of queries for Joe, but caught sight of her mobile phone. The signal was scant. No messages or missed calls. She gave but a moment's thought before removing the SIM card and cutting it in half with blunt nail scissors. Then she turned off the light and lay in the darkness, soothed by the stillness. Eventually her eyes made their acquaintance with the shadows. Wardrobe. Drawers. Standard lamp from Em's room. Mirror from the back bedroom. Painting of a seaside pier. Lloyd Loom chair brought down from one of the attic rooms. Today's clothes heaped by the door to wash tomorrow. Across her body, under the bedclothes, the soft throw she'd brought with her which Tamsin had given her on her birthday. Just before she fell asleep Tess remembered the utility room. A whole room devoted to a washing machine and tumble dryer and ceiling-mounted airer with its pulley system. Off that was the boot room – just for footwear and coats. Imagine that. The lap of luxury. A house that had everything. Buckingham Palace had nothing on this. Bounds Green was far far away. This wasn't running away! This was a new start – a sensible thing to do. An excellent idea! Brave, too. Tess felt utterly liberated.
Joe went to bed stiff and tired. He'd worked until two in the morning. He climbed halfway up to the second floor, observed how the doors were closed on the rooms that were empty, but were ajar on the rooms now occupied. He liked that. Usually house-sitters barricaded themselves in at night. This woman was open. Then he told himself to stop being soft – the baby hadn't slept on her own before and the mother would need to hear her in an instant. And as he tucked down on the floor below, he thought, where there's a baby and a mother – then there's most usually a father, isn't there? And he wondered, for a moment, who he was. And where. And why wasn't he here with them? Was he on the scene? Or was he the reason Tess had suddenly turned up on his doorstep, babe in arms?
A girl and her tot in his house was one thing, a whole bloody family unit would be quite another. Boyfriends lounging around and playing man of the house were not on the job description. And then he touched upon the fact that little over twenty-four hours ago, he had not known this woman at all. And he still didn't. Yet here she was, without references, without even giving him her surname. Here she was in his house having brought her life into his home.
She can make changes to a couple of the rooms, he thought, but that's it.
Chapter Three (#u8d54ff8a-df34-5284-8722-ade7955cf65c)
Joe came into the kitchen, still fugged from a heavy sleep. He was wearing pastel-striped pyjama bottoms, the same woollen socks from yesterday, and a T-shirt. Tess glanced at his arms and thought, he has a tan – in March.
‘Morning,’ he said. ‘Been up long?’
‘Since the crack of dawn,’ Tess answered curtly. ‘I'm not used to everything being so quiet everywhere. The dog's been sick – does it happen often?’
He looked at her, standing there with her hands on her hips and a tea towel he knew wasn't his slung over her shoulder, her sleeves rolled up as if she was ready to fight.
‘Where?’
‘I've cleaned it up,’ she said. ‘I wasn't going to leave it there.’ She folded her arms. She looked peculiarly defiant and Joe found he didn't know what he was meant to say but felt she was waiting for an apology and fast.
He glanced at the clock and then regarded Wolf who didn't look like a dog that'd just been sick. The dog was engrossed in a hearty lick of his nether region, his tail spread across the kitchen floor like a length of old frayed rope. ‘Sorry – I overslept. I don't usually. And no, Wolf isn't sick often. You should have left it for me to deal with.’
‘What – with Em around?’
Now he felt guilty – as if he'd brought a lack of hygiene into the home of a child. Ridiculous – this was his house, wasn't it! And only her first day. He looked over at her sternly but she shrugged and popped her hair into a pony-tail. He'd quite liked her spirit yesterday – but not this morning when he'd just woken up.
‘It's not a problem,’ she said as if she sensed his reservation. ‘I just thought you needed to know.’ Now her equanimity made Joe feel a different sort of guilt, which was just as unnerving. All the more so when Tess then handed him a cup of tea in the china cup and saucer she'd left outside his study last night and he'd left, unwashed, in the sink. He sipped, giving himself time to think, but he was distracted as much by the unblinking attention of the infant as by the very good cup of tea.
‘So, you haven't done this job before?’
‘No – it's a brand new adventure.’
He thought she must mean venture. ‘What did you do in London?’
‘Nails.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Manicures, pedicures.’
He glanced at her nails. They were unspectacular, unvarnished and there was a Mister Man plaster around one. If these were the tools of her trade, they were not a particularly good advertisement. Manicures and pedicures? He didn't feel such a career could have suited her. He reckoned she looked more like a potter, or a photographer's assistant, or a landscape gardener at a push. He couldn't see her in a salon. She was pretty behind her slightly unkempt exterior – but her hair didn't have a particular style, her clothes were nondescript, asexual, and well worn. The lace of her left trainer was shorter than that of the right – the bow being tied on the penultimate eyelets. He thought, OK – fashion is not her thing. He thought, she hides behind her hair. He thought, you wouldn't notice her if you passed her on the street. He thought, perhaps that's a look she's honed.
There's more, Joe thought, noticing a twitch of discomfort cloud her face. A nail-person, whatever they're called, doesn't stand there fidgeting with her own – it's bad for business.
‘Well, actually, I'm trained as a beautician,’ Tess pre-empted, ‘a beauty therapist. Highly qualified, in fact.’
‘I'm not sure there's much call in Saltburn,’ Joe told her. ‘There are a couple of salons already. You might have luck further afield.’
‘But now I'm looking for a change and that's why I'm here,’ she said, as if she'd been mid-sentence.
‘A change?’
‘That's why I'm here,’ Tess said and she folded the tea towel briskly to signify the matter was closed.
‘Well – welcome to your first day. I need to go through my diary with you.’
‘Of course,’ Tess said, ‘but perhaps when Em has her nap after lunch.’
‘Well, actually I would rather—’
‘I ought to figure out where I am,’ Tess interrupted and Joe, to his bafflement, found himself saying, OK, get your coat and I'll show you around town.
Joe had overslept, for the first time in his adult life. Strangely, the sound of someone else was less intrusive than the usual silence. It was as if, with the clatter and attendance of someone else in the house, Joe could sleep longer. He hadn't yet checked a single email. Nor had he shaved because the hot water had sputtered lukewarm in his shower. And when he walked into the kitchen, he was met with a reprimand for his vomiting dog and a change to the order of his day.
‘Joe?’ She was calling him. ‘Five minutes? Ten?’
Twenty would have suited him but he agreed to ten.
Tess had driven in daylight but her urgency to arrive at the destination had precluded any appreciation, or awareness even, of the new landscape. The drive had been arduous, it had all felt interminably uphill from London; even through the monotonous flatlands of the Fens and the plains around York, she'd still sensed she was climbing north. She had never driven such a distance and her eyes had continually darted to the fuel gauge. She needed the journey to be done on what she had in the tank. But having never been further north than Milton Keynes, she didn't know how to judge it. It had added stress to the journey, but not enough to warrant thoughts of retreat. ‘Space, Em,’ Tess had said, over and again. ‘Proper space.’
And this is the sentiment she is repeating today as she walks down the drive with Joe. Em in her buggy. Wolf loping circuitously alongside.
‘It wasn't the pollution or the second-hand aspect of London air and water,’ Tess tells him, ‘I just felt hemmed in. There are places – in the city – where the buildings are so tall and packed they appear to converge and steal a part of the sky.’
‘Living place plotted and pieced by subdividing space into a size that is simply sufficient,’ Joe says and it is so perfectly phrased that Tess stops to consider it. ‘Paving stones butting right up against tree-trunks.’ He's walking on. She catches up so she can listen. ‘People living on top of you, underneath you, crowding into you on buses, pushed up against you on tubes, encroaching on your personal space but avoiding eye contact at all costs.’
‘But how do you know this?’
‘I lived there too. When I was studying. A century ago,’ he laughs. ‘I lived in Peckham.’
‘From here to Peckham? What is there to study in Peckham?’
‘Peckham – because it was a cheap place to live,’ he says. ‘I studied Design. And then I studied Engineering. Not because I wanted to be an eternal student. But because I knew what I wanted to do.’
‘Are you doing it still?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is it that you do?’
‘I build bridges,’ he says.
‘As a metaphor? Are you a counsellor? Marriage guidance – that kind of thing?’
Joe laughs and she looks cross that he should. ‘No – real bridges, the type that go from A to B. Bridges that span valleys and rivers and cross divides. Bridges that enable one to traverse air and water; bridges that take you closer to the sky or allow you to skim the sea. Bridges that join and unify places otherwise kept apart, that pacify areas previously hostile.’
Tess is struck, again, by his turn of phrase. She recalls that photo on the Welsh dresser. Perhaps it was San Francisco, the Golden Gate Bridge? She's embarrassed to ask. She knows nothing about bridges. In fact, she's probably always taken bridges for granted, having grown up in the shadow of Brunel's mighty Clifton Suspension Bridge. She decides she likes Joe's passion for his job, how it obviously enhances his life. She feels gently envious. She had similar passion once that she'd ploughed into a Small Business Loan, but that verve and the funds are long gone. Nothing remains. Nothing of anything apart from those bloody boxes in the back of the car and the weight of it all on her shoulders. She glances at her nails now and alters her grip on the buggy so she doesn't have to see them. The whites of her knuckles will have to do instead.
‘It's nice here,’ she says, priming her gaze outwards to blank out thoughts of London that have suddenly slid around her like a coarse scarf pulled too tight. They are walking downhill steeply; the street is residential but quiet, with grand Victorian buildings to their left, while lush and wooded land delves down sharply into a valley to the right, the land climbing up to the cliffs beyond. A little way ahead lies the North Sea, a motionless grey slab from this distance; on the horizon a tanker looking like a toy. Tess slows her pace, giving little tugs at the buggy. On the right, just before the woods roll downwards, a war memorial, a bandstand, a playground with a view. And an intriguing sign for Italian Gardens.
‘There's a miniature railway,’ Joe is saying. ‘It runs from the gardens to the sea.’ And then he tells her, just wait until the summer.
‘Hear that, Em,’ Tess leans forward awkwardly over the buggy, ‘a train to the sea.’ And to herself she says, hear that – he'd like me to house-sit until the summer.
She really likes his accent and she really likes what he's said.
‘You can also take a lift down to the pier.’
‘A lift?’
‘A water-balanced cliff lift. Eccentric Victorian ingenuity. You'll see.’
‘Did you grow up here, then?’
‘I did.’
‘And apart from your student days in London, you've lived here, you'll never leave.’ It is not a question. She says it as a statement, as if she wants it to be true.
‘Yup. I'm tied to the place all right,’ Joe says.
‘You make it sound a burden. I'd love to own a house half as beautiful and half the size as yours. Do you have family here too?’
But Joe has already bristled inwardly. Why is he doing this? Why is he walking with her? Why didn't he just give her the map and the info pack he'd prepared for house-sitters? In fact, why didn't he give it to her last night? Or leave it on the stairs when he realized she'd gone to bed. Why does she want to know about his family? Enough! A more informal set-up than he's used to in his house is one thing – but personal history is another. It has nothing to do with what's in the fridge or the hot-water system or the fact that the boot-room door to the garden needs a shove to open and a tug to shut.
Anyway, missy, what about you? he's tempted to say. You and your child up here on a day's notice? He lobs a stick into the copse and Wolf streaks off to fetch it. House-sitters shouldn't ask so many questions, Joe wants to say though he can't deny he has some of his own. It's not part of the job, he wants to point out. He ought to have stayed home this morning, he ought to have made it plain that the only time his life should be of any concern to her will be clearly written on the calendar. She can consult it to know when he is due back and when he is off again so she can organize milk and bread and other basics. But he doesn't say any of this – he knows it sounds too harsh. However, that just makes him wonder if he's soft to think so.
What had possessed him not to ask for references? Most people wanting the job had presented them to him before even looking around. Pages of testimonials praising their hygiene and trustworthiness and responsibility and experience. He glances over his shoulder; she's lagging behind again, pointing things out to the baby though the baby appears to be asleep. It's difficult to tell, under the swaddling of hat, scarf, blanket, mittens and foot-cosy all made from spongy cerise fleece.
‘Look! Plane!’
She says it out loud, automatically, as if she is conditioned to conversing only with her child. As if she has been unused to adult company and conversation, down there, wherever it was that she'd come from in such a hurry. Joe looks up at the plane and his antagonism wanes a little. She does seem genuinely enamoured of the house and the remit of the job. She has mopped up dog sick and she does make a good cup of tea. How is she to know about which of his raw nerves not to touch?
Joe decides the best option, for both their sakes, is to keep the conversation anodyne. He sees he has the very opportunity, spread out in all its faded Victorian splendour in front of them. This woman doesn't know Saltburn-by-the-Sea but he does. In a few days he'll be out of the country. He does need to go through his dates with Tess but OK, it can wait until Emmeline's nap. He also needs to go the bank and Wolf is straining for a good blast on the beach. En route however, there is plenty to politely point out – landmarks for Tess, an opportunity for Joe to de-personalize the conversation.
Tess has now caught up with him. ‘These buildings are stunning,’ she says, ‘they'd cost a fortune in London.’
‘Good old Henry Pease,’ Joe says. ‘He was the Victorian gentleman who came for a walk, sat on the hillside over there overlooking Old Saltburn's single row of cottages and the Ship Inn and had a vision for the town and formal gardens you now see.’
‘Why isn't it called Pea-on-Sea then!’
‘Pease,’ Joe repeats but he has to smile. ‘Actually, Saltburn comes from the Anglo-Saxon Sealt Burna, or salty stream, on account of all the alum in the area. But moving on a few centuries – Henry Pease built the place with George Dickenson of Darlington in the 1860s. They constructed a model of homogeneity – uniform roof lines in slate, white firebricks exclusively from Pease's own brickworks, and no fences.’
‘You have a fence,’ Tess says. ‘You have a tall wall with a fence on top all the way around.’
‘The house is from a later period,’ Joe says, thinking she is an argumentative thing. ‘Anyway, twenty years later the town was done – the station complex, the Valley Gardens you've just passed, the chapel, the pier and the cliff lift which back then was a glorified hoist. Best of all the Zetland Hotel – see, over there? Isn't it magnificent? It's flats now – but it was the world's first railway hotel and very grand it was too, with its own private platform. Pease's father built the Stockton and Darlington Railway – the first passenger railway in the world.’
‘It's a very good-looking town,’ Tess says, thinking how her own family had so little to be proud of.
‘That's partly because when Pease died in 1881, the Saltburn Improvement Company was disbanded and the town's driving force was gone – so no new features were added and the resort has remained a sort of time capsule, a perfectly preserved Early Victorian seaside town.’
‘Like a living museum.’
‘You should see it in August during the festival – everyone dresses in period costume. Well, not everyone.’
‘Not you.’
‘No, Tess – not me.’
‘I'd like to.’
‘Don fancy dress?’
‘No – see it in the summer!’
‘You should be here over Christmas – there's a tradition of running into the sea.’
‘Oh. Do you do that?’
‘I have been known to.’ He looks at her. She seems concerned. ‘It's not obligatory.’
‘It's just I don't really like beaches all that much.’
Joe continues to look at her; again she is irritating yet intriguing in equal doses. What an odd thing to say – not least on account of her impromptu beeline for Saltburn. ‘Why ever not? And why come here, then?’
‘You said sea views.’ And once again, she's implying that Joe is guilty of misrepresentation.
‘Who doesn't like beaches?’ Joe says because the beach is clearly in view now. The tide is out and the view is stunning: the sand is long, wide and glossy and the North Sea is now licked with silver and scattered with diamonds while the pier marches on its cast-iron trestles almost 700 feet out.
‘Me,’ Tess says. ‘I don't like beaches.’
Two surfers ride the waves, weaving in around each other like shuttles on a loom. Wolf is at the shoreline already, barking at them but apparently loath to get his paws wet. Joe passes a tennis ball from hand to hand. ‘Coming?’
Tess looks at the beach cursorily. ‘I think I'll stick to dry land. I think I'll explore the town.’
Joe shrugs. ‘I'm going to the bank after I've tired out Wolf. I'll see you back at the house. Can you find your way? It's straight up there. Shit – you don't have keys. Here, take mine.’
‘Say you're back before me?’
‘I won't be. You'll know town inside out in the time it'll take me to walk half the beach. Pick up some milk, would you?’
There's a plunge to her gut as she realizes she has brought no money. Rice cakes, a beaker, baby wipes, nappies, a spare hat, two cardboard books and a squeaky toy. But no money.
‘I left my purse at home,’ she calls after Joe who is already tormenting Wolf by feigning to throw the ball. The wind, though, snatches her words away. ‘Joe!’ He turns and cups a hand to his ear. She pulls the empty pockets of her jacket inside out and gives a mortified shrug. He jogs across the beach back to her, Wolf bounding and lurching and leaping at his arm in desperation for the ball which Joe holds aloft like the Olympic flame.
‘I left my purse at home,’ Tess says when he's close. ‘Sorry.’
She looks acutely embarrassed. Joe throws the ball for Wolf and passes Tess a pound coin and says, don't spend it all on sweets. As he heads back for the shore, he recalls how she said she'd left her money at home. He liked that. Hers are undeniably a rather odd pair of hands – this manicurist with the chipped nails from London – but Joe senses they are a safe pair and that in them, his house and all that is in it will be fine. He can go to France on Wednesday without a backward glance. In fact, he might even head off early. Perhaps tomorrow. See if Nathalie is around.
Chapter Four (#u8d54ff8a-df34-5284-8722-ade7955cf65c)
Tess kept the pound coin tightly in her hand though it made pushing the buggy awkward. Though Joe had mentioned the pay, he hadn't told her when she'd be paid, but she expected it would be in arrears. Which meant no income for a month. Which meant she really was going to have to phone her sister at some point soon. But at that moment, she let the practicalities drift out to sea and she turned her undivided attention inland, to the new town before her. Tess had been in London for a decade, gradually becoming inured to the challenges of the big city; learning not to be intimidated by its scale or bothered by her anonymity. However, on her first full day away from London, Tess found the smallness of Saltburn quite startling. The pavements felt narrower. The cars appeared to move slower. It all felt quiet and empty. There was a total absence of the familiar coffee chains and though she had often cursed their proliferation in London, it made Saltburn seem half asleep. Wake up and smell the coffee, she felt like calling out. But actually she felt a little shy and too conspicuous to cast her gaze too far afield, so all she spied in her first glances was a newsagent, a grocers, an off-licence, butcher, baker, gift shop and chemist. There also appeared to be a startling lack of the gaudy homogeneity to which she'd become accustomed in London. As a child, Tess had visited Bekonscot Model Village and now she felt she was walking around a life-size version. On that first morning, Saltburn seemed quaint and odd in equal doses. However, people were undoubtedly friendly as she passed by, giving her a nod or offering her a quick word, counteracting her private misgivings of blimey, is this it? She wouldn't phone her sister, not today. Let today be full of promise.
She'd seen Joe and Wolf still bounding about the beach so she made haste to be the first one home. There, she paused at the gate and drank in the sight of the house which after the arduous slog uphill from town, had a similar effect to downing a long cool drink. Despite the general sharp chill in the air, she'd needed to take off her coat and bundle it into the hood of the buggy. At a standstill, she could feel the race of her heart and she was surprised at her lack of fitness.
Odd how, apart from its size, she'd noted very little about the building on arriving the previous day. Now, she had the time to. Compared to the creamy white bricks of Pease's buildings in town, the house, a large Victorian villa, was constructed with bricks which had a rose tint to them. Even on a cold March day, they appeared to soak in the sun and radiate its warmth. Decorative arches, some in bas-relief, some indented, broke up the expanse of brickwork between the tops of the windows and the roof. The roof was a mauve slate, its uniformity given interest by the tall chimney stacks of different design and the terracotta pointed crenelations along the ridges which might be to deter birds but could be purely ornamental. The white-framed sash windows were edged in cream stone. There were windows everywhere at all angles – no vista would go unseen from this house. When she had the time and the privacy, Tess would certainly look out from inside from every one of them.
Em was on the cusp of dozing off so Tess pushed the buggy on a tour around the garden – or gardens, for the half acre had been compartmentalized. There were polite lawns at the front, flanking the drive, another large expanse at the back demarcated by a blousy shrubbery and rolling herbaceous borders in something of a straggle. A little path mown through longer meadow grass at the back led to two sheds, one sizeable, one ramshackle. There were specific areas for a compost heap and bonfire site, an overgrown raised vegetable patch where only weeds shot out along the heaped rows. Behind a group of conifers was a plot apparently designated as Wolf's toilet. Well, she'd be asking Joe about fencing that bit off; she couldn't risk Em toddling in that direction. If that wasn't too much for a house-sitter to demand. What a place, though, what a space.
Suddenly, she was clinging onto a tree as if she was teetering on the edge of that great Huntcliff Nab, the majestic cliff which towered above the beach and plunged into the North Sea. The ground felt as if it were moving away from her feet like a conveyor belt in overdrive. Her breath was shorter, her heart racing harder than when she'd just slogged up the hill.
Em, Em, what have I done? Setting out to secure the best life for you? Or have I just run away? Where the hell are we? Where on earth have I brought us? What was I thinking? I didn't stop to think. I never stop to think. Am I running away? Will I be caught? Is this just hide-and-seek – have I gone to ground while kidding myself this is My New Life? These stupid ideas of mine.
When she finally felt able to open her eyes and prise her grip from the tree, she stood still awhile, blinking in the reality of her surroundings in a series of snapshots. The beauty and breadth of the grounds. The majestic poise of the house. The warmth of the bricks. A date stone carved with 1874. She repeated the date out loud quietly, over and over, the sound of the words regulating her breathing. She honed in on another stone plaque over the front door just visible from this angle. She wheeled the buggy over to take a closer look. The lettering was in relief. RESOLUTION, it read. Strange name for a house, she thought. And then she thought, it's time for resolutions of my own. It was a bright moment of calm after a storm of turbulent emotions. She placed both palms flat against the bricks. This house, by name alone, had instilled a new sense of purpose in Tess and she didn't feel merely soothed now, she felt bolstered. She returned to the main swathe of garden and parked the buggy in a quiet spot under a tree within sight and earshot of the kitchen windows and went inside to boil the kettle.
She made a cup of tea, more to hold than to drink. And there was Joe again, grinning from the photo on the dresser, yellow hard hat and the bridge in the background. Thank you, she said, thanks for this chance. She turned her gaze outside. She could see that Em was asleep in the buggy, Em was just fine.
‘Here.’
Joe's back.
Tess hadn't heard him come in and her vantage point from the kitchen window precluded seeing the approach to the house.
‘Keys – though as you've probably found out, the doors are rarely locked.’ He reached up for an old toby jug on the top shelf of the dresser, full of keys, and jangled a set. He looked at her quizzically. ‘Or you could keep mine,’ he said, ‘and I'll take this pair.’
It was then Tess realized the keys were still firmly in the clench of her fist as if she had no intention of letting them go. She looked at them. A Chubb and a Yale on a key ring from Brazil spelled with an ‘s’. Like the postmark on the card on the dresser from Giselle.
‘Have you been to Brazil, then?’
‘Yes. Many times.’
‘Have you a bridge there?’
‘Yes.’
Tess wondered why she wanted to say, and have you a Giselle there too? ‘Tea?’ she said instead.
‘Ta.’
‘Resolution.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Your home – it's a good name. Different.’
‘Next door is Endeavour.’
‘That's different too. But I prefer Resolution. I like the meaning.’
‘Not that up on British history, then?’
‘What?’
‘Resolution? Endeavour? They were the ships James Cook sailed on his voyages of discovery. This is Cook Country – he was born not far from here, just outside Middlesbrough. He sailed from Whitby – just down from here.’
Tess grasped the information. ‘Where did he go to on the Resolution? Where did he discover? When was that?’
‘1772. Cook sailed the Resolution for three years, disproved the southern continent by sailing round Antarctica and discovered Tonga and the New Hebrides. 1776 was his third and final voyage – off to the North Pacific on the Resolution to find the end of the North-West Passage which of course he didn't. But he did sail through the Bering Strait and he did discover Hawaii where, on a return visit, the natives killed him.’
Tess felt shy for her ignorance but she thanked Joe and said that Resolution was a beautiful name for a house.
‘Better than Dun Roamin',’ said Joe who appeared to Tess to be oddly immune to the romance of it all.
She thought about the house, inside and out. ‘All the windows,’ she said. ‘It's like a compass – views from every point.’
‘Well, your maritime analogy is strengthened by the fact that there are mice in the cellar and in a raging storm, the rain finds its way in through the lower windows.’ With that, he let Wolf out into the garden from the boot store off the utility room. Tess realized this must have been the way he'd come in just now. She followed him.
‘Does Wolf always go in that patch – over there? You know, “go”?’
‘Yes, he's very particular.’
‘Could you fence that part off, then?’
Joe looked at her. ‘How about I put a sign up instead. Like in municipal parks – you know, like Keep off the Grass.’
‘What – No Dogs instead?’
‘I thought more along the lines of No Children.’
There was a loaded pause between them.
‘Em can't read,’ Tess said, and her tone harked back to when she first saw Joe's dog. ‘She's only eighteen months.’
‘Wolf can't read,’ Joe said bluntly. ‘He's only a dog.’
‘You didn't say anything about a dog,’ Tess muttered.
‘Ditto child,’ said Joe. He felt curiously irritated. Not because of the child or the dog or the shit, just because this girl was doing it again. Unnerving him. Maybe it was sharing his space that caused it. Maybe those house-sitters who did the job unseen and not heard, suited him better. ‘I'm going to go to France early – tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Very good,’ she said because then she could have the place to herself.
The chill between them lasted a few moments longer but then Joe watched a whisper of vulnerability cross Tess's face.
‘Tea?’ she said though he hadn't finished his first cup.
‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘I need to crack on. We'll go through my diary in a while.’
Alone again, Tess looked out to the garden. Wolf was mooching around like a hairy metal-detector, never far from the buggy. Em's little fists were agitating the air around her.
They'll be OK, those two, Tess thought, they'll get along fine. It's not that relevant if Joe and I don't. He won't be here that often.
But she was appalled that her mind's eye had returned to the smatter of dark hair running from his stomach down to his jeans that she'd seen when he had reached up for the jug of keys.
Get your mind off that, she scolded, and fix your eye on your child outside.
And, though she had no reason to glance again at the photo on the dresser, she was helpless not to. It wasn't the hard hat or the bridge or the bare chest, it was the smile. A blend of euphoria and tenderness and utter focus. There had never been a time when someone had smiled at her like that.
Who were you smiling at, Joe? Where is she now?
‘It's a peace offering.’
Tess turns around, mortified. She is stooped over the bath with her bottom in the air and she knows her jeans are not the most flattering at the best of times. From this angle, there's no escaping builder's bum.
How long has he been standing there, holding the bottle of red wine?
‘A peace offering?’
‘I was arsey,’ Joe says, ‘before – about Wolf and the garden and Emmeline.’ He takes his eyes off Tess and focuses on the slippery pinkness and the foam Afro demarcating her daughter.
Tess scoops Em out of the bath and cocoons her in a towel. She sits down on the side of the bath not knowing what to say. ‘Well, that's OK, Joe. I was a bit – demanding. I'm just the house-sitter anyway. Not a house mate.’
Joe considers this. ‘Well, whoever you are, would you like to share a glass of wine? Save me from drinking the whole bottle?’
She felt herself ricochet between desire and reticence like a ball caught on a bagatelle. Yes, Tess wanted to say, yes please. Adult company. Someone to share an evening with. Someone with a nice stomach. Who can smile so well. Someone currently standing casually against the doorway of the bathroom just a foot or so away. But it is easier to be harsh on herself, lecturing herself as she lowers her head and rubs Em dry that she is here for a very different purpose than sewing seeds of friendship or being charmed by a member of the opposite sex. She's been rubbish at so much else over recent years, but this house might provide the fabric for her at least to be an excellent mummy and a fine house-sitter. And that'll do. That'll really do. She is not going to ask for more than that.
‘Thanks,’ she says, ‘but I'd better not. I'm a bit headachy. I'm going to have an early night.’
Chapter Five (#ulink_e30b078f-f77e-5829-a97a-d8aa861e88c0)
When Joe shut the front door and Tess watched, unseen, as he drove away at eleven o'clock the next morning, she mourned the glass of red wine that had never been. But then Wolf sauntered by and headbutted her and Em was squawking and Tess told herself to get a grip and get on with it.
‘What'll we do, gang? Fresh air?’
Wolf, it soon transpired, would be taking Tess and Em for a walk. She didn't dare let him off the lead so he plunged and strained, dragging her and the buggy in his wake. The steep downward gradient of the hill on tarmac was onerous enough but when Wolf led them into the woods and the path became an uneven assault course of hairpin bends, it was quite terrifying. How safe she'd been in London – nothing more than the occasional raised paving stone to negotiate.
‘Wait!’ she said. ‘Halt!’ she said. ‘Sit!’ she said. ‘Stop, you great oaf, just stop.’ They stood in the dappled lilac-green light of woodland. Em and Wolf looking expectantly at Tess. With her composure and breath back, and Wolf having to walk with a peculiar high-stepping slo-mo gait, Tess became leader of the pack. The steep woodland suddenly opened out and levelled off in a little dell of meticulously organized Italianate design. Raised flower beds in intricate quatrefoils and curlicues currently nurtured embryonic planting that would no doubt proliferate as the weather grew warmer. Running in straight lines around the beds, a pathway plotted with regularly placed benches and punctuated by stone columns currently skeletal but which, by the summer, would be cloaked in extravagant floral displays. It was eerily quiet and though Tess tried sitting, she soon moved away.
They walked on until again the woods gave way to open meadows and a river over which catkins trickled off branches and there was a Poohsticks bridge. She found a bench for herself, plied Em with rice cakes and threw sticks for the dog. He seemed unable to track any of them but was eager to belt off in the approximate direction, bounding back to Tess as if to say, again! again! again! It made Em laugh. And it made Tess consider how pleased she was that Joe hadn't said anything about a dog because if he had, she wouldn't have taken the job. But the dog's character had won her over; his doleful mismatched eyes and soppy head-cocking were so appealing that she was now immune to his bizarre appearance. It was a novelty, having a pet part-time. And it was going to be a good thing for Em, Tess justified.
‘Fetch,’ she said, though she sat on her hands. Wolf looked at her in confusion. ‘Fetch,’ she said, hurling something imaginary which Wolf bolted off for. Daft bugger. She stroked him affectionately when he came galloping back. His ears felt like the rags she had in the back of her car. They were of a similar colour, and just as frayed. ‘Dog-eared,’ Tess laughed. ‘Come on, let's go home and get you two some lunch.’
Pushing the buggy uphill as it dinked and lurched over the pathways, while having to haul an exhausted Wolf lagging behind her was a slog and Tess decided she wouldn't be pitching quite so many imaginary sticks for the dog tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow she'd venture a little further – not afield, but into town again. Today it felt enough to have walked and walked in the woods, to have found the Italian Gardens and the river.
Back at the house, rooting around in cupboards for a tin of baked beans, she came across a jar of preserved apricots over two years out of date. And a dead moth. And then sugar that had congealed into a solid block. Next to it, a lidless jar of Marmite with a layer of fluff furring the surface. Further inspection revealed plenty more in there – crumbled packets, tins with unfurling labels, sticky bottles. But the baked beans at least were in date and there was still half the loaf of the good bread Joe had bought yesterday. She glanced at the clock. Lunch-time. Where would Joe be right now? When exactly would he be back?
The afternoon was washed away by rain which came down like old-fashioned beaded curtains so, while the child and dog were napping, Tess made a start. The only apron she could find, in a scrunch with a collection of old batteries in one of the kitchen drawers, had a cartoon illustration of a naked female body on it, complete with foam breasts that, with time and storage, had puckered like a bad boob-job. Never mind, it would have to do. After all, there was no one here to see her. The kitchen table now had a usable surface large enough (since Tess had liberated it from the piles of Joe's stuff) for her to place items to be kept. Anything out of date, or just plain dodgy (some yellowish powder that was neither sugar nor flour, some worrying dried brown pellets, the apricots, Marmite and moths) she dumped in a bin bag. The cupboards she would disinfect before reorganizing. She looked everywhere for cleaning fluid and though it appeared Joe bought Fairy liquid in bulk and had plenty of pristine cloths that looked nothing like his dog's ears, that was about it.
She thought of the dog. And the baby. And the hill. And the enclave of shops. And the hill back. And the ache in her arms and the nag in her shins. The woods were one thing – she'd liked the company of only oak, ash, hazel and alder; the solitude had made her feel so together. Human contact, she anticipated, was quite another. Too much, too soon. On her own, she could be busy and in control – but how would she answer if someone said, hullo, love, are you new to these parts? Anyway, she wanted Em to have another half-hour's sleep and by the look of Wolf, sprawled halfway across the kitchen floor, he needed the same. She rooted around in the utility room. More Fairy liquid. And cheap washing powder. Even at her most impecunious, Tess had never scrimped on buying leading brand, dermatology-tested hypo-allergenic tablets.
Better make a list – prioritize what's essential. Where's a pen when you need one? Probably up in her bag, hanging on the back of the chair in her bedroom. But two flights of creaking stairs risked waking the baby so she looked around the entrance hall, searched through the drawers of the console. Found a biro. A glove. Some loose playing cards a fair few short of a full deck. A necklace of paperclips. But no scrap paper. Well, there was a Chinese takeaway menu and an address book but all the pages were densely written in the copperplate hand of a much older generation. She cursed herself for having so ruthlessly chucked out the heap of scrap on the kitchen table. Joe had laughed and had said, OK, I get the hint. He had taken some of the papers away while authorizing her to bin the sizeable mound still on the table.
Joe's study. Tess hovered by the door. What were the rules and would this be breaking any? An invasion of privacy? Out of bounds? It hadn't been discussed. He hadn't given her the house-sitter's pack he'd mentioned. She turned the handle, half expecting the door to be locked but it wasn't.
A floor-to-ceiling bookcase ran across two entire walls, the proliferation of spines serving the eye like detailed wallpaper. On the third wall, a collection of frames. Diplomas it looked like, some authenticated by red sealing wax. Certificates. Awards. An old print of a run of classical bridges that Tess knew had to be Venice. Against this wall, a large old writing desk with an inlay of moulting green leather and a stack of drawers with brass hinge handles to either side. A specialist would wince, no doubt, that it was in desperate need of French polishing and the leather, frayed and papery, should be replaced entirely, but Tess felt that would be missing the point. The swivel chair appeared to be a little skew but she imagined that it was perfectly aligned for Joe. The fourth wall wasn't really a wall at all, dominated as it was by full-length French windows looking out to yet another aspect of the garden. From the main approach, the house appeared as an imposing solid block. But Tess now felt how it was far from this. Windows at angles, rooms at tangents to the main walls; it felt fortified, there were no blind spots, the house had been configured so that every inch of its grounds could be viewed.
To either side of the French windows, a column of thick maroon velvet hung, faded along the folds to suggest the curtains were rarely drawn. In front of them, at odds with the entire room yet dominating the space and proclaiming Joe's authority, was a vast, stark white draughtsman's table; its top angled up, a high-tech stool in position.
I'm here for a scrap of paper.
But that did not preclude finding it being a lengthy process. She glanced at the clock. Em would be waking soon – Joe, perhaps landing. Tess imagined him fastening his seatbelt thinking, Christ, who the hell is this woman I've left in charge of my house – she's probably rummaging around my study this very moment.
One of the brass handles on the desk drawers was sticking out, as if suspended in time waiting for someone to pull it. She folded it gently down. She brushed her hand over the surface of the leather inlay and took her face to it to inhale. Ink and dust and history. She smiled, recognizing some of the documents and papers that had been in a scatter on the kitchen table now in a neater pile here, on top of a less ordered pile that was itself balanced on a jumble of others. She didn't give the laptop more than a glance; it was closed, and jarringly sleek and silvery for the desk. She thought of her Hotmail account and then thought better of it. She looked at all the framed certificates and found out Joe's middle name was Randal and his surname was Saunders. She imagined he was teased about this when he was younger. There couldn't have been many Randals in Saltburn in his school days. Nor now, probably. It seemed he was top at everything he'd done. Cross-country running included. There was a beautifully calligraphed, extravagantly embossed certificate in French. Tess's knowledge of the language was limited. Some fancy accolade for M. Joseph R. Saunders. Perhaps it was the freedom of a city for which he'd built a bridge.
Building bridges is what he did and the meticulous sketches on the draughtsman's desk attested to this. Tess perched herself on the stool and peered at them. A myriad of details, they resembled completed studies of architectural fragments, replete with angles and figures and arrows and symbols. Unable to interpret the details, Tess felt a little small, intimidated by the apparent complexity and Joe's obvious expertise. How ever do these two-dimensional clippings materialize into vast structures which carry, cover and join? She swivelled the stool and thought about this. As the stool stilled, she caught sight of a wastepaper basket under the old desk. Bingo. She retrieved a handful of scrap paper and sat at the desk to write her shopping list.
Washing powder (E)
Disinfectant
Nice cheese (me)
Marmite
Organic pasta (E)
Ditto rusks (E)
Biscuits (me)
Fruit & Veg
That would do for now. She did wonder whether to replace any of the out-of-date items she'd thrown away. But then she decided if a man hadn't had the desire for preserved apricots or brown pellet things during the last two years, he probably wouldn't crave them anytime soon. She glanced at the back of the paper – or what would have been the front when it had served Joe. A column of names. Her own included. It was a list of those applying for the job. The first name had a question mark and O.C.D?! written alongside. Mrs Mackey had been rewritten as Mrs Mucky and had a large X by her name. John Forder had mass murderer and a doodle of a dagger dripping blood by his. Mr and Mrs Potts had ANCIENT!! in capital letters by theirs. Mrs Dunn, however, had a tick and an arrow to a telephone number. Then another arrow to a sizeable cross with the word busybody! Then Tess saw her name. Next to it was no tick, no cross, no arrows, just a single word. Barking. No exclamation mark to lighten it. She thought back to the phone call, where she'd used her phoney American accent before exchanging it for a whisper. She remembered accepting the job before it had been offered. Barking, she had to concede, was an acceptable definition. But she would have liked a doodle by her name all the same. She wondered how Joe would rethink this categorization having had a couple of days of her. She slumped a little as if she could physically feel how she'd let herself down. Stroppy Cow, she wrote alongside Barking.
Then she wondered, would Joe declare her a busybody for fumigating his kitchen? Would he think she had OCD for planning to enforce structure in his store cupboards? Perhaps such enterprise would earn her a great big tick, maybe even a doodle. It had been a long, long time since anyone had bestowed a seal of approval on her. Even the paltry tips at the salon had fallen short of being anything but a formality. She looked at her nails and added Emery board (me) to the list. She'd left her manicure set on the sofa in London. A feeble gesture, but a gesture all the same. It was a professional kit and had been expensive. She hoped her landlord, nasty man, might know so. Would he have called by now? Three days, she reminded herself, that's all it's been.
Wolf seemed unable to stand upright, let alone go for another walk, so Tess gave him the benefit of the doubt and let him out into the garden where she chided him for doing his business and then felt bad because he looked so confused. It made her think she should leave him be and instead train Em not to venture to that particular area. After all, wasn't the garden large enough to accommodate all of them? She'd poop-scoop, that's what she'd do. She'd timetable it in, every day.
‘Come on, Em. Wolf – you can stay here.’
She took the buggy though Em toddled alongside for part of the way. This time, they stuck to the pavement on the opposite side to the valley gardens, passing by the magnificent Victorian buildings, trying to sneak a look through the beautifully proportioned windows.
‘See sigh!’ the baby's pudgy hand waved excitedly.
‘Not today, baby,’ Tess said, skimming wary eyes along the beach. There was a pebbly area where the river-mouth met the beach, everywhere else the sand was a perfect blond. Today the wind whipped the surface sending sand whispering over the beach like smoke.
‘See sigh,’ Em repeated as if indignant that enunciating the words hadn't led to the reward of the real thing. They were standing at the railings again, from where they'd watched Joe and Wolf cavorting the day before yesterday.
‘Sorry,’ said Tess, ‘Mummy doesn't like the beach.’ Then she looked around her and said, but Mummy does like the pier.
Tess pushed the buggy along the lower promenade, passing the old beach chalets in red and white all battened down against the spring squalls; on past a closed café, an open surf shop. She walked around the small amusement centre at the entrance to the pier, went through the ornamental gateway and walked out onto the boardwalk. The tide was out leaving the sand with a mirrored surface on which a string of horses was being ridden. They were passing right under the trestles and Tess and Em looked down on them from one side of the pier to the other, like large living Poohsticks. For all its impressive length, the pier was plain, austere almost, with none of the lurid jollity of Brighton or the tasteful and innovative renovation of Southwold. But when Tess looked around her, up and down the coast, inland, out to sea, to the sky, she thought how the point of this pier was perfectly realized – to serve the views.
Along the length were occasional benches, sat upon by elderly couples in a huddle to watch time pass while allowing the bracing sea air to do them the power of good. They cooed over Em who smiled on cue. Tess looked down to the shore line as she continued to walk along the pier; the spray from the wave crests was being blasted back to sea – nature breaking the rules. At the end of the pier, a snuggle of men fishing. Tess ventured up to them, gingerly – it was windy and the pier was high. Their buckets were empty but that didn't seem to be the point, rather eating sandwiches and sharing their flasks of tea did. Plenty more fish in the sea, one man called after Tess. She laughed though she said to herself, yeah right. Been there. Done that. Got the baby.
Tess shivered. She wanted to scrub out the kitchen before having to prepare supper. She picked up her pace which allowed for only a cursory glance at the cliff lift Joe had pointed out, now rising steeply right in front of her. Gaily painted in similar shades to the chalets and the promenade buildings, it appeared to be a near-vertical funicular. Another day. No rush. She wasn't going anywhere, after all. Hadn't Joe said he wanted her to stay long-term? Leaning the top of her head into the wind, she retraced her steps briskly.
‘Easy!’
She looked up, just in time to avoid a slippery mound of neoprene, which appeared to have been just stripped off and flung in the middle of the walkway outside the surf store; like some felled mutant creature from the deep. The voice belonged to a young wet man saronging himself in a towel. His hair, in long shaggy blond ringlets, held drips of water at each tip and they flew off in a sprinkle as his head moved. He was pale-skinned but brawny. Briny too by the look of his slightly bloodshot eyes and soggy hands and feet. With his chiselled features, he looked rather exotic for his surroundings.
‘In the water I don't feel the cold,’ he said, in a light Australian accent, ‘but as I walk back across the beach I start fantasizing about my towel.’
By the look of his nipples, the shiver of his torso and the blue tinge to his lips, Tess reckoned he could do with another towel around his top half. She didn't say so, she just nodded and walked on.
‘Do you surf?’
‘No fear,’ she said as she walked.
‘Well – if you've no fear, as you say, then come by one day and I'll teach you.’
‘Not likely,’ Tess laughed.
‘Can't swim?’
She stopped and turned. ‘I can. I just don't do sand,’ she said.
‘I'm Seb. I work here.’
She called over her shoulder as she walked away again. ‘I'm Tess. I work up there.’
Not rude, Seb reckoned. Just shy.
Chapter Six (#ulink_32b39584-209d-540e-a321-81cb44879807)
And work up there she did.
The kitchen was to take her two days, during which time fresh air for herself, her child and the dog was restricted to the garden and one excursion down to the small everything shop for milk, bread and fish fingers. She'd been through Joe's chest freezer which occupied an entire room off the utility room, with only a couple of mops for company. She'd chucked out much of what was in it, having to defrost it enough to release the hunk of meat and packet of peas and something that looked like a bag of soil that were entombed in ice at the bottom. The work was hard on her back and tough on her hands, but it was energizing and satisfying and preoccupying because it gave her no time to dwell. But when the hard labour was done and she could immerse herself in the smaller details, she freed up thinking time and in doing so, gave anxiety an opening to vex her. She'd had no contact with those close to her since her absconding. Because she'd cut up her SIM card, she'd made herself uncontactable but had inadvertently severed many links too. Initially, it had all felt liberating. Now it felt hasty and stupid. There had been no need, over recent years, to commit phone numbers to her own memory when the wonder of the SIM card could take its place and store more. She reckoned she might just be able to recall Tamsin and her sister's numbers – but she couldn't face phoning either just yet.
Stop thinking about it.
It doesn't matter at the moment.
Concentrate on Joe's spice jars. They're filled with little wriggling things burrowing amongst the flakes of herbs.
She chucked out the contents then disinfected the glass containers with boiling water. They looked pretty; dazzling clean with their scruffy labels washed off.
Stickers. She wrote the word on a new shopping list.
Parsley.
Sage.
Rosemary.
Thyme.
Scarborough is around here somewhere, she thought, singing Simon and Garfunkle during which Wolf left the room and Em woke up. With the baby and the dog snaffling rusks, Tess put the empty jars away in their new position in the slim wall cupboard nearest the cooker. Seven of them. She racked her brains but was pretty sure Paul Simon had specified only four. She returned to her list.
Basil.
Coriander.
Etc.
From the hallway, Wolf suddenly started barking. I'm only humming, Tess protested but the dog skittered over the stone floors from kitchen to front door and back again, turning circles while yowling at the top of his voice.
‘Hush.’
But he wouldn't so Tess went over to him and looked through the spyhole. ‘No one there, Wolf,’ she said and she went out into the drive to prove it. She looked down the street too but apart from an elderly lady walking downhill, the road was empty of cars and pedestrians.
‘Some guard dog you are,’ Tess laughed at the sight of Wolf simultaneously barking but cowering on the front doorstep. ‘There's no one there, Wolf. In you go, you daft dog. There's only us here.’
But two days later, Wolf started again. And a split second beforehand, Tess did think she caught a glimpse of someone passing by the living-room window (she was busy alphabetizing the books). But when she ventured outside, there was no one and she felt an idiot. She scolded Wolf for – well, for crying wolf.
‘When the real baddies come – I won't believe you.’
But she did quietly wonder to herself whether she was imagining things; perhaps conjuring people to populate her world that currently had in it only a dog and a child for company. One week in, she thought again of Tamsin, of her sister; she needed both for very different reasons. But she didn't know what she needed to say to the former and she didn't want to have to say what she needed to the latter.
She'd been here just short of two weeks. Joe was expected back, briefly, in a couple of days. She'd quite like to finish the larger living room in that time – to beat the hell out of the rug and pummel life back into the cushions, to complete her work on the books, to dust them down and put them back up from A to Z. The kitchen was now spotless but forlornly bereft of supplies. For all she knew, Joe liked to cook up a storm on his short returns. She decided she ought to put the living-room books on hold and complete the herb section in the kitchen instead. Stock up on a few basics, too. Ensure there was fresh produce in the fridge for him, as requested. She looked in her wallet as if she expected it to have spontaneously filled since she last opened it, but discovered less than she remembered. Might Joe pay her when he was back? She knew she'd be too shy to ask. She really should phone her sister, swallow her pride and just dial. She folded her sole banknote and slipped it into her back pocket. She told herself she should have cut up her bank card, rather than her SIM card, because it was the former that was really of no use any more. But she wanted to hang on to it, as if it was a talisman – like a pair of jeans that used to fit and that might fit once again if a few pounds could be lost. But Tess knew her bank account needed to gain a lot of pounds before she could use that card again. She would have to phone Claire. But perhaps it could wait until Joe had been and gone again.
For the first time since her arrival, Tess took her time around town. She'd been in to buy essentials, of course, but had made her visits quick. However, her days during this first fortnight had designed themselves into a series of concentric rings whose diameter had increased with time. Initially, Tess had needed to constrict her surroundings to feel she could cope – just a few feet in front of her, or a few minutes in any direction. As time passed and she unwound and slept better and enjoyed her days more, so she found her energy and her confidence and discovered a new urge to increase her field of vision – what she saw, how far she'd go and how long she'd be gone from the house. Almost daily, she'd increased these elements, stepping onto a larger ring each time, keener to discover what lay along its length.
Venturing up and down the shopping streets on recent days, she'd been surprised at the diversity. From the iron awnings and dusty glass along Milton Street and Dundas Street harking back a little forlornly to their Victorian heyday, to the price-promos plastering the windows of the small supermarket near the station; from old-fashioned boutiques promoting a proliferation of drip-dry beigeness modelled by oddly posed mannequins in slipped wigs, to a hippy-chic kids’ clothing store; from the chippy, to the small but sumptuously stocked deli; from a shop selling a knot of fishing tackle to a high-class chocolatiers. It appeared there was even the demand for gluten-free pizza, right here in Saltburn – but that didn't mean that the Chinese takeaway would be going out of business any time soon. She learned as much from the small cartographic gallery as she did from Tourist Information, buying two postcards of local paintings from the former and taking all the leaflets or papers that were free from the latter. She passed by the library and jotted down details of a playgroup at the church two mornings a week and saw that the one-act drama festival had completely passed her by. She read the signs and flyers in shop windows. She took a calendar of events and saw that in May there'd be a film festival, in June a food festival, in July a comedy festival, in August a folk festival as well as Victorian Week.
A friendly woman much her own age, with a child Em's age, struck up a conversation with Tess in the queue inside the bakery. She was Lisa, she said. Born and bred here, she said. You're coming to Musical Minis, she told Tess – your daughter will love it and we mums need someone new amongst us. We go for lunch afterwards, Lisa said, then on to the playground. She even waited for Tess to be served and then said, goodbye, see you soon – great to meet you, pet. To Tess it all sounded as intriguing as it sounded exhausting and she told herself she ought to do it. It would be good for her, and Em.
She walked on, meandering down towards the pier and half wondering if there'd be a flung pile of wetsuits and a semi-naked Seb today. The surf shop was open; there was a rail of sale clothes outside but there was no one tending the shop and no one browsing the wares. No Seb today, at least not on shore. She walked along the pier and watched the surfers but they were indistinguishable in their wetsuits from that distance. The tide was in, lapping greedily around the trestles of the pier, the swirling sea visible through the gaps in the boardwalk. The fishermen at the end of the pier had yet to catch anything.
Tess turned and faced inland and looked at the peculiar little cliff lift waiting for the tourist season to start; the vertical line of the track up the cliff looking like a zip. With the two tiny tramcars stationary midway up, it appeared the cliff's flies were half down. To her right, far along the beach, she noted the industrial chimneys of Redcar, the sunlight today investing the scene with the hazy romanticism of Monet as much as the prosaic charm of Lowry. Some distance to her left, the great lumbering mass of Huntcliff Nab commanded the beach to end in a perfect cove. So much to explore, she thought. How long before all this newness becomes my stamping ground?
Her visit to what she now thought of as the Everything Shop brought increased conversation with the proprietor today. Tess asked for rosemary and a shoebox full of packets of dried herbs was produced.
‘Sorry, love. No rosemary, but how about this – fines herbes. Sounds exotic, doesn't it.’
Tess agreed.
The lady continued. ‘Mind you, the way I pronounce it, sounds like a Scandinavian lurgy. Finiz herpiz.’
Tess laughed and had to agree again. ‘Well, I'll risk a packet anyway,’ she said. ‘Oh, and I need two more types as well.’
Between them, Tess and the lady went through the packets of herbs before Tess decided on tarragon and sage.
‘You cooking up a treat then, pet?’
‘I'm restocking. The old ones had creepy crawlies in them.’
‘You vegetarian, then?’
It was said so deadpan that it took a long wink from the proprietor to release Tess's laughter.
‘Would you have a nice vinegar? Try where? Real Meals – is that the deli on the corner of Station Square? Thanks for the recommendation. I'll have some of that jam, please. And do you sell wire wool? Of course you do – you're the Everything Shop.’
There wasn't much change. Tess calculated that balsamic vinegar might have to wait.
‘Stopping here a while, love?’
‘Stopping here, full stop,’ Tess told her. ‘I'm still finding my way around, still finding my feet. I met someone today who told me about a mums and toddlers group.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘London.’
The woman nodded her head gravely. ‘Why?’
Tess was stuck. ‘Why what?’
‘Why London – and why here?’
‘My sister lives in Edinburgh.’ But that was just the pat reason Tess had decided to use when the time was right to finally inform her friends where she was. She smiled at the lady as she prepared to leave. ‘Actually, why not here – it's good.’
The lady nodded.
‘I'm a house-sitter,’ Tess said. ‘Up the top. Anyway, I'd better go. I'm dying for a cup of coffee and it's a steep hike home with this old buggy.’
‘You want to take yourself to Camfields, pet. It's near the car park by Cat Nab, the funny little hilly mound near the beach – bottom of the Gardens. It's your kind of place, I would think, coming from London and all. You'll get your cup of chino there, or a latty or whatever. It's a café – you know – not a caff.’
‘I might just try it,’ Tess thanked her. And the next day she did just that. And the coffee really was excellent.
Chapter Seven (#ulink_046c0399-8bfa-51df-b0c8-3abda8ebdfed)
Nathalie stretched. She didn't really need to, there were no sore muscles or nagging joints to necessitate it. She did so because she was well aware how it presented her figure to its best advantage. So she stood in the front room of her apartment, on a Thursday evening, her hands clasped above her head, a slight hitch to one hip, knowing that her top, skimpy enough, was now stretched over jutting breasts as well as having ridden up to expose her toned stomach. She'd kept her high heels on because they elongated her legs and she'd locked her knees to increase further the sleekness of her limbs. Holding the pose a moment longer, while casting a nonchalant gaze out of the window, she then sighed as if she'd just had a satisfying yawn and she let her body go soft, her hands coming down to rest on her hips, one knee now cocked, breasts still up and out there.
‘So,’ she said, letting it hang, her lips maintaining a perfect ‘o’ of the word. ‘You will miss me, Joe?’ She did the same thing with her lips to the sound of his name. As pouts go, hers was textbook, but she made it look involuntary, as if it had slipped her mind to return her lips to neutral because sex was always on her mind and never far from her mouth.
Joe was sitting on the sofa, watching Nathalie as if she was a performance, a one-woman show, a private viewing exclusively for him. She didn't need an answer – it hadn't really been an enquiry. He went over to her and placed the tip of his finger against the hole her lips still made. Her tongue flicked at his fingertip before her mouth sucked it all in, down to his knuckle. He moved his other hand deftly up under her short skirt, rubbing his thumb along the gusset of her knickers while he closed his eyes. That mouth of hers, from which came her dirty, husky French accent. That mouth of hers, pretending to be a pussy, pretending his finger was his cock. Yes, he'll bloody miss her.
‘You come back to me soon, non?’
And she was pouting again, coyly, as she fingered the mound straining behind his jeans. He plugged her mouth with his tongue and ran his hands over her body; a grab at a breast, a squeeze at a buttock, a grasp for the back of her neck, a pull at her hair to release it from the chignon so that it fell and bounced around her face and caught across her lips. She started to pull her top over her head, stretching her torso into its best aspect again. Joe took charge of her top and worked it up into a blindfold while he stroked her, at first tantalizingly through the transparent lace of her bra before ripping it down to reveal her skin and those eager, nut-brown nipples. With her eyes still masked, he returned his mouth to hers while unbuttoning his jeans, released his cock from his pants and took her hand down to it. Like petals closing around a stamen, her fingers lightly encircled his cock before tightening their grip. He gasped. She flung the blindfold away.
‘You want my mouth or you want my cunt?’ Such a question. And the preview she'd provided of both options rendered Joe speechless. She knelt down, and looked up at him while she sucked him into her mouth. She stood up and grabbed his hand, easing his finger up inside her panties, up inside her. He buckled down to the floor, pushed her prostrate, pulled her knickers to one side and penetrated her for a few forceful thrusts before he came.
She smiled at her chandelier. It was always the same with Joe; he could not contain himself. He loved to fuck her fast and selfishly, to fuck her hard, and she loved it. They'd do it again later, at her instigation and it would be less urgent, lasting longer with him concentrating on her orgasm. For the duration of this trip – as on all his trips here – they'd had sex every day. It was never boring with Joe. Kinky sex, fun shagging, horny sex, oral, aural – but it was the near-aggressive fucks which she enjoyed the most despite being over quickly with no time for her own climax. Just to feel a man so utterly abandoned in his desire for her was turn-on enough. Now he was exhausted and hot, heavy on top of her, spent. She could gyrate against his weight, she could stimulate herself against his semi-stiffness and the ooze of his come to bring herself to orgasm. But she knew he'd take her later that night, tomorrow morning too, no doubt, before he left for England. She traced her nails over his back, right down to the dip at the top of his buttocks.
‘You miss me, Joe?’ she asked, still consciously lascivious. ‘I think you'll miss me big, non?’
Chapter Eight (#ulink_233361ef-9c2f-5d88-aa72-bcaca230bb40)
‘Look, Wolf, I've told you – there's no one there. I thought I saw someone too – but it must have been shadows cast by the trees.’ Wolf turned a few more circles by the boot-room door, baying while he did so. ‘You've missed him, haven't you,’ Tess said, watching Wolf settle with a sigh. ‘I can't say I have because I don't know him at all, really. But that isn't to say I'm not looking forward to his return.’
Because she was standing in the kitchen holding a knife, the dog assumed she was talking about food so he drooled and mooched over to his tin bowl, looking back at her imploringly. Tess shook her head. Daft dog. ‘Your master, you dumb hound. Joe? Daddy?’ He pushed the bowl with his snout and cocked his head to one side. Tess gave him the crust of the toast she'd been eating. She looked around the kitchen and felt quietly house-proud. She hadn't done it for Joe alone, but that did not preclude her keenly anticipating his response. Or looking forward to adult conversation and human company in the evenings.
When Wolf started barking and charging around as if his paws were on fire, Tess wondered whether it was the phantom presence at the window again until, a moment later, she heard the car crunch onto the gravel. A zip of adrenalin momentarily immobilized her. Shit – the main living room was still a battleground of organized chaos, with books in piles waiting to be re-shelved, the cushions from the sofas airing outside in the garden, the rug hanging on the washing line after a thorough bashing. The room looked dreadful to the untrained eye. And so, for that matter, did Tess. She caught sight of her reflection in the window and winced at her hair hanging in limp tangles. She looked down at herself – baggy sweatshirt, shapeless leggings, bare feet with toenails in need of attention. As she made to dart upstairs, she suddenly remembered Em in the highchair in the kitchen. She raced back in there and out again.
And so it was barefoot Tess looking slightly manic, and Emmeline with porridge or cement or something smeared around her face, and Wolf turning in a tizzy of barks and leaps, who Joe came across when he came through the front door. Fortunately for Tess, the dog hurled himself to the fore-front, craving Joe's attention as much as she slunk from it so she was able to just call, hi there! just going to change a nappy! while springing up the stairs with Em.
Keep away from the front room, keep away from the front room, she chanted to herself while changing Em. Go to the kitchen, go straight to the kitchen.
Quick, quick, quick.
Socks. The good jeans. A clean black top. Hair tamed into a pony-tail. Baby fragrant, pink, cute, clean face.
Slow down. Slow down. Silly to be so excited. Really silly.
He was in the kitchen, with a cup of tea.
‘The French are very, very good at most things,’ he said, ‘but making tea is not one of them.’
‘Welcome back,’ Tess said and she glanced around the room. Has he noticed anything?
‘Everything OK? Did Wolf behave himself? He looks well.’
‘All's fine,’ she said. ‘How was your trip?’
‘Good. Productive. The project is progressing. I ate a lot of garlic. I ate horse. I argued with the concrete company, I assured the planners that there's been no change to the height, I persuaded the client it may be a little more expensive than we agreed. Oh, and I drank too early in the day – France is France.’
Tess was nodding as if she'd been there. ‘Well, welcome back.’
‘Merci, mademoiselle.’
‘Must be nice to be home after hotels.’
‘Oh, I was in an apartment,’ Joe said and he wondered why he made the place sound corporate rather than Nathalie's.
‘Did you have a balcony? And cast-iron twirly railings, long thin French doors and wafting organza drapes?’
He regarded Tess – by the look of her, she dearly wanted the answer to be yes. He recalled briefly Nathalie's ultra-modern pad. ‘Of course. And I drink my morning coffee out of a big white bowl.’
He started to glance around his own kitchen, as if it was taking him minute by minute to reacclimatize to his surroundings. ‘It's all looking very –’
Tess didn't want him to finish his sentence before he'd seen it all.
‘Let me show you!’ She rushed through the room, cupboard after cupboard, flinging open the doors and presenting the interiors like a showroom sales manager.
‘You've been busy,’ he said, flicking through his post. She realized she had hoped he'd jump to his feet, to inspect and marvel.
‘Just making myself useful. You don't mind, do you? It's the sort of job that's a shag to do yourself – but I thought it could be part of why I'm here.’ She was a fast fidget of words. ‘I'm making a start on the drawing room—’
‘– the where?’
She reddened. ‘The grander sitting room – the one without the telly.’
‘Making a start?’
‘Just cleaning and organizing. Doing your books – you know, in alphabetical order. I could do your CDs in the other room too, if you like. You can decide the system – you know, whether Bruce Springsteen comes under B or S. If you have Bruce Springsteen.’
His expression was illegible.
‘Your herbs were alive,’ she continued, ‘and you had stuff two years out of date. And no disinfectant. So I took the liberty – you know, out with the old, in with the new. But I did replace most stuff, at least store-cupboard essentials. And fresh food in the fridge, like you asked. Have you seen the fridge? A lemon cut in half put in the egg tray keeps whiffs at bay – my grandmother told me so.’
She was tying herself in knots of trivial information and it amused Joe. He'd put his post to one side.
‘I can't pay you more,’ he said and he really didn't mean it to sound curt but it did – harsh even. And if she'd given him the chance to retract it and apologize for it, he'd have thanked her and praised her too. But she'd already leapt to the defensive.
‘I'm not doing it for the money,’ she said, intentionally spiky.
And they stared at each other and thought to themselves, oh, it's you. I remember now, you have the ability to wind me up.
Tess took Em out for a walk straight away. Wolf took it upon himself to follow them out. Joe called the dog from the house, when he thought he was straying, but the dog ignored him, much to Joe's annoyance and to gentle satisfaction on Tess's part. Once she'd gone, Joe looked in at the disarray in the large living room or drawing room, said, Jesus Christ, shut the door and made for his study. At least his study was as he'd left it. He swivelled on his stool. He'd intended only to tease; he'd meant no offence. But that Tess should bristle so excessively had served to shut down his apology. However, he regretted the situation now. And he was sorry that the house should have emptied so soon after his arrival. He went to the kitchen and glanced in a cupboard. He'd never seen it like that. He looked in the others and had to admit to himself that he was impressed and not irritated. She really had been busy. What had she done in her rooms? He made another cup of tea and took it upstairs, to have a nose.
The child's room looked just that: a room for a child – toys in mutiny all over the place, miniscule clothes on scaled-down hangers, a floral border mounted not very precisely at dado height, pastel-patterned bedding folded neatly over the sides of the travel cot. It had been Joe's bedroom this, once upon a time, but he had no memories of it being so – he pondered – being so what exactly? What was it that it seemed now, that it had never seemed then? It took a while to pinpoint. Friendly, he decided. Friendly. He was tempted to sit cross-legged on the floor. It alarmed him a little. He left the room without looking back into it.
Tess's room appeared peculiarly feminine. She'd changed the configuration of the bed but apart from that, and adding furniture from elsewhere in the house, the room remained much the same. She'd found tiebacks for the curtains from somewhere and had taken cushions from elsewhere to put on the window seat. A throw Joe knew wasn't his made the bed seem, well, made. Against the fireplace, the LPs he'd lugged in from her car. The little table in the corner, which he hadn't seen for years and she'd found God only knows where, had on it a notebook and pen, a pot of Nivea, and a jaunty little pouch containing make-up. He casually flipped through the notebook. It was blank. Over the chair, her handbag – a beat-up brown leather thing. Maybe not genuine leather. On the Lloyd Loom seat, the scrunch of clothes he now remembered she'd been wearing when he first arrived this morning. Under the chair, a cardboard box. In it, he saw an iron, a kettle, a strange little wire basket and three rather dated fitness videos. Rather strange equipment to have brought with her, he thought. On the windowsill outside, three small handmade terracotta plant pots. Crocus and narcissus in flower. She must have planted those in London last autumn. Overall, the room smelt nice. Of clean things. Of fresh air having been let in on a daily basis. It didn't seem anything like the room his father used, that he escaped into for hours on end when his mother was being unbearable. The uninvited memory made Joe leave quickly.
The bathroom was gleaming. He sniffed at the baby shampoo and bubble bath and discovered it was this gentle scent which permeated the two bedrooms. Nicer than his Head & Shoulders. He noted that Tess had been through his entire towel supply to carefully choose only those that matched. Flannel, hand-towel, bath sheet. The baby, it appeared, had brought her own personalized set; soft, thick and fluffy with an embroidered duck and a curlicue ‘E’.
There was a spare loo roll. A bottle of bleach. A book called Splishy Splashy made out of plastic. Rubber ducks in pink, mint and yellow. A new, higher wattage light bulb. Toothpaste for sensitive teeth. Another tube for one-to-three-year-olds. A little toothbrush that looked like it was for a doll. A sponge in the shape of a frog. A lovely room. Magazine worthy. Yet was this not the room he'd been locked in as a child, when he'd been bad or had been perceived as such? His parents’ version of today's Naughty Step. It was also the place he'd been sent to when his parents needed him out of sight and sound so they could fight uninterrupted. Today, the transformation of the bathroom was so extreme it was as if an exorcism had taken place. He was sitting in there, feeling no need to shudder. If she could do this to these three rooms, she could do what she liked with the rest of the house, he decided. He'd be sure to tell her so when he next saw her. He'd give her carte blanche to alphabetize his CDs; she could choose whether Bruce Springsteen was filed under B or S. He'd let her know all this once she was back from her walk. Maybe they could have a late lunch, a chat.
He was hungry now, though, and he went back down to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich, admiring the gleaming interior of the fridge, the fresh contents that were in it. Then he took a longer look in all the cupboards and he checked out the freezer and he wondered to himself, was I really that much of a slovenly old dog? And he thought perhaps he had been. And he wondered, why did she do it? Doesn't she have anything better to do? And he thought perhaps she doesn't which, for his ends, was no bad thing. He thought back to Mrs Dunn. He'd made the right decision – for the old place. He wondered if Tess felt the same – it continued to strike him as odd that a young woman should move from the liveliness and opportunities of the capital city to keep house for a sometimes snide bloke in a sleepy seaside town in the North.
‘I could throw a pasta dish together,’ he told Tess when she arrived back soon after. ‘The cupboard fairy appears to have updated my herb rack.’
Tess smiled a little shyly; aware of the peace offering. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I bought olive oil and balsamic vinegar – they're only small bottles but it was a twin pack, on special offer in Real Foods. I reorganized your wines in that cupboard. White on the upper shelf, red beneath. I hope that's OK.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It is OK,’ he said. ‘Say, eight-ish?’
So she repeated eight-ish and they nodded at each other, appeased.
Joe went to his study, shutting his door, leaving Tess to fill the rest of the afternoon doing whatever it was she finds to do in this old house of his.
Do I dress for dinner? Tess wonders while popping the snap-fastenings on Em's night-time babygro. ‘Shall I?’ She pauses. ‘Stop it.’ She pauses again. ‘Not you, Em – me. We'd probably be in the kitchen preparing our supper at the same time anyway. It's just convenience.’ She snuffles Em's tummy much to the baby's delight, scoops the child up and watches their reflection in the window. She often gazes at the sight of herself holding her child in this particular embrace; it is an image that cannot be bettered.
I love you, little girl. I love you. You and me, my baby, you and me.
She puts Em down in the cot, switches on the night-light, winds up the music box, watches her a while longer, then tiptoes from the room.
She hasn't many clothes but she does want to change. There's her denim skirt, a skinny black polo – a total makeover from the bagginess of her daytime garb. There's an unopened pair of black tights too. No suitable footwear really, only trainers. She'll go shoeless – she's noted that Joe never wears shoes inside, just chunky socks with or without his well-worn moccasin slippers. The latter are usually at the say-so of Wolf, who likes to take them tenderly to bed with him.
She puts on a little mascara for the first time since London and sits at the mirror having a look. You are a bit mad, she says to herself. Dressing for dinner with a man you don't know in a house you're treating as your own, you deluded thing.
It has just gone eight. She waits until ten past – indulging in a woman's prerogative to be late-ish when the plan was eight-ish.
But he isn't in the kitchen and there's nothing on the stove and the herbs are still in the cupboard and there are no sounds of life coming from the study. She stands there a while, furious that she should feel dejected, for feeling suddenly self-conscious in a stupid skirt. And brand bloody new, black bloody tights. Don't even mention the mascara. The stone floor is cold; through the soles of her feet she can feel the chill snaking an insidious path up her body. She is just wondering whether to add socks to her ensemble or change outfits completely when the back door opens and Joe appears, followed by Wolf who bounds to her in a skitter of muddy affection.
‘Bloody hell, Wolf,’ Joe says, ‘it's only been a couple of hours.’ He looks at Tess. ‘It must be love.’ He looks at the kitchen clock. ‘Shit. Sorry.’ He looks at Tess again. She looks different. She's in a skirt. Good legs. Something about her eyes. Nice though. Shame Wolf has left his mark. ‘Are you hungry?’
She nods.
‘Thirsty?’
She smiles as she nods.
‘Wine? Water?’
She looks a little embarrassed.
‘Wine?’ Joe helps.
‘Please – I mean, if you're having.’
‘Red or white?’
Again, she looks self-conscious.
‘This is a nice red,’ Joe says and they chink glasses and sip quietly.
‘Many hands make light work?’ Joe says as he plucks up an onion and throws it underarm to Tess. She catches it, much to Wolf's chagrin, who has been sitting quietly focused at her side.
‘Slice?’ she asks. ‘Dice?’
‘Finely chop, please.’
‘Is this for a secret recipe?’
‘It's my “if-you've-got-it, chuck-it-in” speciality,’ he says and once she's done the onion, he sets her to work on the tomatoes. Bolstered by the wine, it is a genial and industrious atmosphere and, when they aren't working their knives or humming to themselves, they talk lightly about their time apart. Joe finds out what she's been up to whilst he's been gone and Tess discovers he's off again, to London, then possibly straight on to France.
‘This smells good, don't you think?’ ‘It smells lovely. A welcome change from toast and Marmite.’
‘Is that what you live on?’ Joe gives her a stern but theatrical frown. He stirs the sauce and proffers the wooden spoon towards her lips. She would have preferred to take it off him but, a little self-consciously, she comes closer and sips straight from his spoon. She licks her lips and hums approval. He is looking at her intently and for a suspended moment they lock eyes before Tess turns away; calls herself crazy, tells herself she's been too long without male company, that it's ridiculous to melt just a little just because he's spooned sauce into her mouth. Joe notes the reddening to her cheeks and, when she turns away, he is left looking at the nape of her neck and he can't deny that it is all rather Thomas Hardy again. He's doing an Alec D'Urberville – albeit feeding this Tess sauce off a spoon instead of a strawberry by hand. He can see that she feels awkward and actually this quite stirs him. Also, he can see that she is unaware how this emotion affects her looks and actually, he likes the look of her. And he liked the look of her lips parting for his spoon, the feel of her mouth against it, the closeness of her body. The nape of her neck.
‘I'd better check on Em,’ she's saying and while she is upstairs, she takes off her mascara, looks at herself in the mirror and thinks she looks worse which, bizarrely, makes her feel better.
The pasta is in bowls on the table when she returns.
‘Seasoned with tarragon and sage,’ Joe announces, not actually noting any difference in barefaced Tess. ‘I like the labels you drew – very artistic.’
Tess has no complaints about toast and Marmite but Joe's pasta really does taste good. As it warms her, it thaws her awkwardness. ‘That Everything Shop is a treasure trove.’
Joe laughs, he knows exactly which shop she's referring to. ‘That's why I have a tab there.’
Tess stops chewing.
‘If you need anything for the house, just stick it on my tab,’ he clarifies.
She swallows thoughtfully.
‘Have you spent much?’ Joe asks and she should say, well, yes actually. Relatively speaking, she's spent quite a lot. Her purse is all but empty now. She should be recompensed, she's the house-sitter after all. Instead, Tess brushes away the suggestion as if it's grains of salt on the table. She twists her fork gamely into the pasta.
‘I'll add it to what I owe you. I need to pay you anyway,’ Joe says. ‘I'll write a cheque tomorrow.’
Tess stops eating again. She takes contemplative sips at her wine before finally saying that, actually, if it wasn't a problem, cash would be better, if that was OK.
‘Cash?’
‘If that's OK?’ Tess thinks, please say it is.
‘No problem. We'll walk to the bank tomorrow morning, if you like – assuming you'll be taking Emmeline out. Been to the beach yet?’
‘I told you – I don't like beaches.’
Joe is about to ask why ever not, but there's something about the way she has lowered her face, how her look has gone all inward, that stops him. It appears sand is dangerous territory so he moves their conversation to neutral ground and they chat easily about bridges and fingernails, dogs and babies, late into the night.
Chapter Nine (#ulink_0cd1c67b-6cc7-5f77-9e85-a15c5a95d21c)
‘Cash, then?’ Joe confirmed, standing outside the bank the next morning.
‘If that's OK.’ She fought to sound casual and nonchalant though the notion of money soon fleshing out her purse filled her with near manic relief. She hoped Joe might just think it was the whip of the mid-March wind making her quiver a little.
‘You guard the Wolfster,’ he said, handing Tess the retractable lead, which Wolf took advantage of just as soon as he was in her hands and his master was out of sight.
An unbelievable length of cord spewed out of the casing and though she said, shit, and pressed anything she thought could be pressed, Wolf was around the corner in no time and she was having to set her feet against his almighty lug.
‘So, I'm taking it that you don't water-ski either, let alone surf?’
Seb. She'd met him only the once and he'd been semi-naked. Today he was fully dressed and appeared taller than she remembered, but his accent was as distinctive as the shaggy fair hair spiralling out from his black fleece beany. He put his thumb and index finger in his mouth, blasted out a long whistle and within an instant, Wolf was back. ‘Universal Language of Dog,’ he shrugged and he placed his thumb over Tess's. ‘Push it forward – don't press it in.’
‘Does my dog know you?’
‘Nope – but that whistle always works. Well, it does for the larger, stupider dogs – no offence, big guy. Whereas the little 'uns – they'll just give you the canine equivalent of the finger.’ He didn't have to pause long for Tess to smile. ‘I have another whistle I use on the ladies.’ He gave a lusty wolf whistle through his teeth and finished with a wry, cocky grin at Tess. ‘Never fails,’ he shrugged and he laughed when Tess raised her eyebrows at her gullibility. He fanned a paying-in book. ‘I ought to go.’
Tess found herself hoping Joe wouldn't come out just yet and Seb wouldn't go in just yet. And would bloody Wolf stop his frisk and frolic.
‘Pop by,’ Seb said. ‘You know where to find me. And if I'm not in – just whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you?’
‘Of course I can whistle.’
Funny girl, this one. With her blonde baby and oversized dog.
‘Do you know him?’ Tess asked Joe who'd come out of the bank at much the same time as Seb went in.
‘Who?’
‘The guy from the surfing place?’
Joe looked back briefly, not sure to whom in the queue Tess referred. ‘Er, no. Do you?’
She shook her head. ‘Not really – he said hi the first time I went to the pier. He's friendly.’
‘We are, mostly,’ Joe said.
‘He's Australian.’
‘They're friendly too, mostly.’ He gave Tess a fold of banknotes which she put in her jacket pocket. He could see that her hand remained curled around them, clinging on tight. But he did note that her eyes were watery and her cheeks red. But there again, the wind was particularly brisk this morning. ‘Beach?’ He said it very, very casually.
‘Not today,’ Tess replied briskly, as if she already had plans. ‘Em and I will see you at home.’
See you back at the house, Joe said to himself, watching Tess walk away.
What is it about the beach, Tess? And what is it about home?
She says she's eaten, when he offers to cook again later that day. He doubts it, though. She looks pale and tired. It seems her daily tea quota is down too – her two china cups and saucers have not been moved from the dresser.
The baby has been fractious; Tess working hard not to appear harried. But he's heard her cuss the dog and the singsong voice she usually employs to feed the baby has a strained edge to it. Her smile is there, but her eyes, which appear dark and dull, do not confirm it. Bath-time jollities have been less audible too.
She disappeared into Em's room long ago.
All is quiet. So quiet that Joe hovers on the first-floor landing, then again halfway up the second flight of stairs.
He looks up and there she is. He can see her, she's all in a crumple outside the baby's room. She's slumped on the floor, her back against the wall, her knees up, her head in her hands. Her shoulders are heaving. She's crying soundlessly – she appears to be consumed by utter sadness. He detects the effort it's taking her to counteract the need to let go with a stronger need for silence and invisibility. Mustn't wake the baby. Mustn't let anyone know. But her desolation descends the staircase heavily and every now and then, he can hear how her voice breaks through involuntarily; hollow and desperate.
Joe backs away.
What does she have to cry about?
Why so sad?
He wishes he could ask. He oughtn't to. He senses it is unequivocally private.
He'd like to make her a cup of tea.
Or offer her a glass of wine.
A chat.
But she doesn't appear again until the next morning.
She looks so fragile she's practically transparent.
It's so windy today, Joe thinks to himself. If she goes out in this, she might be blown away.
‘I'd stay in if I were you, Tess. I'm not venturing out myself in this weather. Thank God April's round the corner. Cup of tea? Kettle's just boiled. No? Later then – lunch too, perhaps.’
Chapter Ten (#ulink_011ab538-b75c-507e-aef4-65e85b7c2604)
‘My father was a doctor,’ Joe told her, ‘and his father before him. And so on. Right from the beginning. When Victorian Saltburn was thriving, they required the finest doctor around – so they perused the revered physicians from York to Durham and offered the position to my great-great-grandfather.’
They were standing at the foot of the valley, near the Cat Nab car park where the clear water of Skelton Beck is joined by the rust-coloured water of Saltburn Beck and they tumble out to sea. Tess and Joe were looking back up inland, both telling themselves that it was perfectly normal for the house-sitter to be out and about with the employer.
‘My dad lives in Spain,’ she said. ‘With his second wife. He's dodgy.’
‘Pardon?’
‘My dad. I don't really know what he does – career-wise. My grandmother used to tell me he “flew by the seat of his pants”. When I was little, I took this to mean that he had magical powers and the months he was AWOL I comforted myself imagining him flying to exotic lands – really flying, with no need for a magic carpet, his trousers sufficing.’
Joe smiled but curbed a chuckle – it was amusing but rather sad. He had to curb a stronger urge to tuck away the strand of hair caught across Tess's cheek. ‘Your mum?’
‘She remarried too. She lives in Florida. In a condo with a man called Merl.’
‘Do you visit?’
‘No. She comes back, once a year, to see my sister.’
‘And you,’ said Joe because he didn't like the way Tess had cut herself out of the equation.
‘Well, she stays with my sister who has a nice place in Edinburgh. And two children. I can't offer my mother anything close.’
‘But what about your Emmeline!’
Tess shrugged and looked downcast before visibly pulling herself together.
‘And your sister? Are you close?’
‘Claire's fifteen years older than me so no, we're not that close. Our lifestyles are very different. We don't really know each other.’
Joe was about to comment.
‘For example,’ Tess continued, ‘Christmas just gone, they went skiing. I mean, I don't ski, I couldn't have afforded the trip and I couldn't have gone with Em being so little. But I wasn't invited anyway. So it did mean I didn't have plans for Christmas.’
Joe thought about this. ‘Well, if it's any consolation, I was on my own too.’
‘Are your parents not around?’
‘Not around,’ he confirmed without further detail but also without the burning reticence he'd experienced when Tess had enquired about his family soon after she'd arrived.
Despite revealing the shortcomings of her family set-up, Joe thought she seemed particularly bright today. Or maybe it was because she was facing inland, with her back to the beach. Certainly there was no trace of her desolation last night.
‘See up there,’ Joe said, gesturing towards the valley, ‘that's the reason I'm not a doctor.’
The view was certainly picturesque, the perpetual sea breeze had caused the trees to point their branches inland. Tess looked, not quite sure on what she was meant to be focusing, so she nodded.
Her confused politeness touched Joe. ‘There used to be a bridge here – spanning the valley,’ he said. ‘The Halfpenny Bridge – or the Ha'penny Bridge. It was built in 1869 to link the other towns of Skelton and Loftus with Saltburn, to enable travellers to avoid the steep drop down to the sea and the arduous trek up the other side of the valley. The bridge rose 120 feet above the Valley Gardens and it was a fantastic piece of Victoriana. Seven cast-iron supports, ostentatious in height and length. Spectacular views of coast and country.’
‘Why Halfpenny?’ Tess asked. She might be looking at nothing but she could clearly envisage Joe's bridge now.
‘Pedestrians paid half a penny. Carriages sixpence.’
‘But where's it gone? Why isn't it still here?’
Joe wasn't going to answer that just yet. ‘You'll find so much about Saltburn has a darker side. It always has – throughout its history. From smuggling to suicide. It's not all creamy dreamy buildings, a jolly pier and a quirky funicular. The Ha'penny Bridge became a hotspot – or should that be black spot – for suicides. As a bridge builder, that's often what gets me most about suicides from bridges. Jumping from tall buildings is one thing; similarly Beachey Head – those structures, whether natural or man-made, are static – they go up and then they stop. There's a top, if you like, and a bottom – the emphasis is vertical and finite. But bridges, by default, are there to carry you. They dominate a different axis altogether. And it – well – it breaks my heart, actually, that some people can't see the other side. They are too lost to see there is a way across. That A flows over to B. That there's another side, another way. They walk along a little distance – and then they let go. In that moment, the bridge somehow fails its function and it fails them.’
‘The Clifton Suspension Bridge has the Samaritans’ number on each approach. I grew up in Bristol. Is that why it's gone, the Halfpenny Bridge?’
Joe shook his head and gave her a smile because she grew up in the shadow of one of the most seminal bridges of the world. She was currently all ears, all eyes and she hadn't noticed that Emmeline was testing the taste of coastal soil. He retrieved the child and hitched her onto his hip, not minding the grubby fingers exploring the bristles on his jaw.
‘No. Actually, that had little to do with it. From the 1960s the bridge started to need repairs, and then total refurbishment. It was going to be too costly to fix, but too dangerous to leave standing. So they demolished it.’
The way he said it made it seem so violent. Senseless, almost. Tess frowned. ‘What a tragedy.’
‘Sort of. It was 1974. The seventeenth of December – my tenth birthday. That was my party, that year, I suppose. My parents brought me down with my little gang to watch. It took four seconds, exactly, to reduce a hundred and five years of cast-iron beauty and engineering into a twist of tangled metal.’
Tess let it hang for a moment. ‘And that's when you decided not to be a doctor?’
‘That's when I decided I wanted to build bridges.’
She let Joe have his memory in private while she enjoyed imagining him as a boy, clothing him in her mind's eye in a ridiculous cliché of cloth cap and hobnail boots, shorts and a knitted tank-top. It made her giggle, which brought Joe back to the present and that returned Tess's focus to the here and now between them.
‘The view must have been so different – when the bridge was here.’
‘Spot on, Tess, spot on. The vista isn't the same. I mean, for purists, it's more natural today than it was for those hundred and five years. But I don't know – for me, that bridge enhanced this landscape aesthetically, never mind practically.’
They looked up the valley quietly. Seagulls bickered in a noisy scatter overhead. The sea breeze, south-easterly and quite strong, pestered one side of their faces, the sun the other. They had to squint but they stood there a while longer, still and thoughtful. Joe didn't tell Tess that, on his tenth birthday, building bridges became not just his chosen career but also a metaphor to serve as a life lesson. He didn't tell her this, just then, because he'd have to explain that the drive for it came from his parents’ disintegrating marriage. The one chasm, the only hostile space, the single seemingly untraversable rift that he'd been unable to bridge. The distance between them was never to be spanned.
And just then, Tess didn't tell Joe that she detected both strength and sadness in his story. That his silent thoughts had a heaviness that confronted her. But she did tell herself that she wanted to slip her hand into his. But then she told herself off for thinking such thoughts. And pushed her hands deep into her pockets.
Joe is going to London tomorrow. The day at the Ha'penny Bridge was two days ago. In the intervening time, he and Tess have walked and talked, eaten together, laughed a lot and spent yesterday evening reading quietly in the drawing room before watching News at Ten in the sitting room. She does still sometimes wonder whether she should ask permission. And he does recall the structure he'd imposed on previous house-sitters. He still hasn't given her the pack. But he has to concede, the house seems to have shown that it works well for the two of them.
It is now mid-morning and Joe has finally emerged from his study and is pottering in the kitchen, taking a break from work. He sees Tess is outside, pegging out washing. Emmeline and Wolf are lolling about in the garden. It is surprisingly balmy today, as if a switch has turned off the chill of earlier in the week until next winter. April is two days away; spring is within easy reach now.
He studies the scene in the garden. It is less a Thomas Hardy novel and more an Edward Hopper painting. Tess, with her back towards him, wearing a faded tea-dress and woollen cardigan with the sleeves pushed up, a pair of old cream trainers. The breeze furling the washing around her forearms and causing the skirt to cling to her bare legs, licking at the fronds and curls of her hair which have escaped her scratchy pony-tail. Every now and then she turns her face a little as she stoops to pick up the next item or to check on Emmeline. And it is then that the sun glances off her skin and spins silken skeins from her hair. Joe wants to watch but he doesn't want to be seen and it confuses him that the scene is so compelling. He goes upstairs to his bedroom to pack for London but finds himself drawn to the window, peering down onto the garden, again transfixed by the sight of her sorting socks.
And look, my boxers. I didn't know she'd done my washing.
He is concerned, bemused, how a picture of such dull domesticity can be arousing, but this is the undeniable effect on him. Perhaps it is the feminine presence. Perhaps it is because at this angle, the sunlight has made her dress see-through. Maybe it is just because he likes her, he has enjoyed her company these last few days; it has been simple and uncomplicated yet entertaining and energizing too. And there's that frisson – how she can be stroppy and how he winds her up, that she can make him snappish and curt. It doesn't make him dislike her, far from it, but it unnerves him that he should feel eager to seek peace soon after. He tells himself, London, you prat, London. So he goes back to his packing.
But before he returns downstairs, he hovers on the landing and then goes up a flight to Tess's room. He's not really sure why. She's outside – he has only to go to a window to watch her, unseen. But he doesn't want to see her, he wants to sense her. That's why he's standing at her doorway.
There's not much to see: a pair of jeans on the floor. Socks in a scrunch. And a pair of plain black knickers kicked off nearby. Nathalie accosts his mind's eye; resplendent in her carefully selected and unfathomably expensive lingerie. Gold mesh and miniscule. Joe steps further into the room and picks up her knickers from the floor. Black cotton. He holds them to his nose, inhaling deeply while calling himself a crazy, dirty bastard. But still he goes to his bathroom to masturbate urgently. It isn't thoughts of Nathalie that have excited this state in the middle of a nondescript morning. He didn't think back to all that sex he'd had the week before. Rather, it was the sight of Tess this morning, in a shabby dress and old cardi. It's the proximity of her right now, just out there in the garden. The girl with the plain cotton knickers. And so, it isn't images of Nathalie that he now wanks to, but the still prevalent sense and scents of Tess. He comes and it's exquisite.
He opens his eyes after a moment and stares at the tessellation of tiles. Alone in a bathroom. He feels a little hollow. Tess's voice drifts up from the garden. She's rabbiting on at Wolf and laughing. She's sewn herself into the fabric of his life in Saltburn and yet for years now, he's felt no emotional anchor here – just the practicality of the house. He cleans himself up and goes back downstairs. He feels perplexed and shuts himself in his study where the complexity of calibrations for a forthcoming pitch offers him a welcome distraction.
‘May I use the phone?’
Tess knocked on the study door later that afternoon and called her request through. Joe's been in there all day, she hasn't seen him at all.
‘Sure.’
‘Oh – and would you like me to rustle up some supper later?’
After a pause. ‘Don't worry about me.’
Tess's turn to pause, laying her forehead gently against the door. ‘I'm not worried about you,’ she said quietly. ‘I'll be cooking for myself anyway. It's no trouble.’
A sigh from inside. ‘OK.’
‘Don't let me twist your arm!’ she muttered and stomped off.
‘Look – sorry. Fine – I'd love some food.’
‘OK. And it's OK to use the phone?’
‘Yes. I told you – it's fine.’
That he should sound irritated irked Tess but her desire to spend time with him is stronger. He's just hard at work, she told herself, building bridges.
‘Hullo, Claire? It's your long-lost sister… I'm fine – how are you? How are the kids? Good. Good… I'm in Saltburn – in the North-East… Me – on holiday? Don't be daft!… I've left London – for good, hopefully …A few weeks ago… Heard from Mum? Dad? My mobile doesn't work – shall I give you this number, you know, just for emergencies? No… No …Yes …Pretty shit, really… No – that's not why I've phoned… Pardon? No, I haven't heard from him – not for months, not since Em's birthday… Don't say that. You know what he's like. Anyway, I think he's still in the States. No – no, he hasn't. I didn't ask again, not after the last time… He hasn't got any money, you know that, Claire. Can we change the subject, please? I'm working here in Saltburn… No, not that – not any more. I'm doing Property Management …Well, I'm house-sitting… No, it's more than that – actually I'm looking after a bridge builder and his home.’
She was relieved to have made the call, which wasn't to say that she'd enjoyed it in the slightest. It would take her an hour or so to recover and feel better about herself. But she was used to that. She simply couldn't afford not to touch base with her sister every now and then.
The only phone in the entire house is the one in the main entrance hall. And Joe found himself helpless not to hover at his study door and eavesdrop. And afterwards, he found it impossible to work but he stayed in his study and thought about things until Tess called him for supper.
He looked at his plate heaped high with locally caught fish, home-made chips, peas and carrots. On the table a new bottle of ketchup, flakes of sea salt in one of the little dishes from Hong Kong he'd forgotten he had. White wine in one glass and water in another. He glanced across at Tess. She'd been quite right to tell her sister how she was looking after him and his home. Quietly, he considered it a shame he had to go tomorrow, to be away quite so often. But then he remembered this morning, when she was hanging out washing. He didn't want to think about it but he knew he didn't want to forget it either. It was confusing. Perhaps it was good that he was leaving tomorrow.
‘So, Tess,’ he said between mouthfuls, ‘what'll you get up to when I'm gone again?’
She thought about it. ‘With your say-so, I'd like to start on the sitting room – the TV room. And we really could make better use of the boot store. It is a room, you know.’
‘We?’
Tess reddened a little. ‘There's good paint you can buy now – it's scrubbable,’ she hurried. ‘It would be perfect. Will the Everything Shop sell it, do you think? Could I put it on your tab?’
Joe nodded. ‘No doubt they have a pot or two at the back somewhere, under the jigsaw puzzles, next to the ericaceous plant food, behind the home-brewery kit.’
Tess laughed. ‘Opposite the cotton reels and just across from the mousetraps?’
‘Or I can bring you some back,’ Joe said. ‘I may not stay in London that long – I may come back before heading off to France.’
He'd only just thought of this.
They caught each other's glance and looked away.
‘Or I may go and visit friends in Kent,’ he said with a nonchalant tap at the base of the ketchup bottle. ‘Chislehurst.’
‘Cool,’ Tess said breezily, as if it was no concern of hers where he went, when.
‘More wine?’
‘Please.’
Joe held the wine bottle aloft, appearing to scrutinize the label as if he harboured some concern over the vintage or the vineyard. He wasn't. But he needed a moment.
‘Pass your glass, Tess, and call me a nosy old sod and you don't have to answer, but Emmeline's dad? I mean, I was wondering – you know – about him. Whether he'll be coming – here – to visit, perhaps?’
He said it all so quickly, so conversationally whilst he poured wine, that however intrusive the question might have been, it didn't come across as such and Tess found herself answering. She hadn't noticed the two small lines that remained between Joe's brows; punctuation marks of discomfort that belied the light tone of his voice.
‘He won't be coming up to Saltburn. You see – well, you'll have guessed we're not together. Actually, he doesn't really visit much.’
‘Were you together for long?’
Tess traced her finger around the rim of the glass as if to elicit sound. Her voice, when it came, had the volume on low. ‘For about six weeks,’ she said. Then she cleared her throat, smiled a little meekly and spoke up. ‘We were together for about six weeks. And then he went travelling. Which was when I found out I was pregnant. It's all a bit of a cliché.’
The food was finished but Joe dabbed at the smear of ketchup on his plate and then sucked his finger thoughtfully.
‘He's a musician,’ Tess continued though Joe hadn't asked. In fact, all he was going to ask was whether she wanted a cup of tea. He thought she might want a change of subject; he was surprised that she didn't.
‘Or at least he likes to say he's a musician, though he never seems to play much more than themes and variations on “House of the Rising Sun”. The problem is, he's very handsome. Well, it's a problem for everyone else, you see. He's stunningly good-looking, really – luckily Em's inherited his looks. But he's one of those free spirits. Born in the wrong generation, you could say. The Woodstock era would have been so much more his thing.’
‘Where is he based?’ Joe asked though he'd eavesdropped about the States earlier from Tess's phone call. He'd prefer facts over these superlatives of the bloke's beauty.
‘He's a “wherever he lays his hat is his home” type.’
Joe was surprised that she smiled so wistfully and spoke with generosity when he felt that this fake rock-star sounded like a vain, irresponsible loser.
‘He's Canadian. I met him in London. He was en route to Europe. Now he's in the States. He wants to do Australia. And then he'll probably start all over again.’
‘Is he a good father?’
Tess wished she could reply quicker and in the affirmative so she employed vagueness instead. ‘He means well. He's not what you'd call “hands-on”. But he's simply one of those people it's just really difficult to get cross with. He has another child. Another daughter – she's five, apparently. So Em has a half-sister, somewhere in Toronto. Which'll be great when she's older. He's full of love and wonder at the world – he's just a bit crap with the practicalities.’
Her response baffled Joe – such equanimity from the woman who could be belligerent with him in an instant.
‘And his name is?’
‘Dick.’ Pre-emptively, she flicked a stray pea on the table at Joe. ‘Don't laugh.’
‘I'm not,’ said Joe. ‘The name fits. Does he support you?’
‘Dick?’ She was incredulous. ‘He's the archetypal penniless musician – he's like a latter-day strolling troubadour! He's only a step away from having worldly possessions small enough to fit in a hanky on the end of a stick, à la Dick Whittington.’
‘Dick Whittington went on to become incredibly famous and wealthy.’
Tess shrugged. ‘Dick's no Dick Whittington, Joe. He's gorgeous and charismatic and I fell for him, but I knew. I knew from when I first saw him, strumming away in Finsbury Park. I knew after the first kiss. After our first night together. During those madcap six weeks. I knew he wouldn't stay. And when I found out I was pregnant. I knew he wouldn't come back.’
Joe rolled the pea gently under his fingertip as he considered this. ‘Brave of you, Tess. To – you know – proceed.’
Tess shook her head. ‘Not brave, Joe, not really. My sister said I was stupid. Tamsin, my best friend, warned me how difficult it would be. But it was easy to make the decision. Being pregnant was the first thing in my life that seemed to slot into place seamlessly with my future. So many other uncertainties. But carrying Em was not one of them. My child would be my constant.’
‘You and her together, hey?’
‘She and me.’
He topped up their glasses. She gave him a half-smile combined with a small shrug.
‘Do you find it hard, Tess?’ The wine had made the question flow and there was an audible trickle of tenderness with it.
She looked at him with her head tilted, as if assessing the intent behind his enquiry. ‘Dick?’ She gave the same smile–shrug. ‘My love for Em soon made me realize that what I'd felt for Dick was just – well, it wasn't love at all. It was a crush. And hormones.’
But Joe wasn't smiling; he was still looking at her intently. ‘I didn't mean not having this Dick in your life – if you'll pardon the expression. I meant – your life. As a single mum. Do you find that hard, Tess? All this, on your own?’
Though Tess was quiet for only a moment, her silence was pronounced.
She wore the same carefully composed smile but her eyes now belied it, filmed by a sudden smart of tears which he could see she was fighting to control. Eventually, she looked up and nodded. ‘It is hard, Joe,’ she said. ‘Sometimes. I feel quite alone. Sometimes.’
He thought of her on the landing, enslaved by loneliness. ‘Yet you've come all the way up here – did you not leave a support network behind in London?’
‘Em is my family. And I might be stupid – but I'm strong and I will cope. Actually, it's a breath of fresh air up here – even if I have filled it with paint fumes.’
She was trying to lighten the conversation but Joe wanted to say, you're bullshitting, Tess. And he wanted to say, the thing is I saw you crying by yourself. And though he wanted to ask her what was making her cry, he really couldn't do that, could he. And therefore he couldn't very well say, Tess, don't cry on your own. And there were two reasons he couldn't voice any of these thoughts.
What could he do about any of it – not least because he'd be gone again tomorrow?
And who was she anyway? He had to keep reminding himself. Just his employee – that's how she saw herself, wasn't it?
Joe had to concede that any dynamic which had developed over the last few days, was tonight both heightened and limited by wine and time. He was off again tomorrow. Whatever he asked tonight and whatever she told him could have only temporary resonance. He told himself, you're pissed you idiot, so shut up.
Then he told himself he ought to draw on the ability he'd honed over the years to fade a woman into the background of his mind's eye whenever he left a location. Just as she really ought to fade into the background on the occasions he returned to this location. As his previous house-sitters had done without him even asking. The ones who'd asked him for a contract or the pack he'd prepared at the very least. This strange girl might be just another house-sitter, but she was currently doing the sitting at his table at his behest, drinking wine and giving compelling answers to questions he was kicking himself for asking in the first place.
She was a house-sitter who called his place home. Who'd filled it with a baby and constantly clean, line-dried washing. Who'd scrubbed out his cupboards and alphabetized his books. What was he thinking? He simply didn't know. But what he did know was that he was feeling more than he was thinking.
Think London, think London. He thought tomorrow couldn't come soon enough. He thought, I'll phone Rachel – she's always game when I'm in the city. He thought how tomorrow he'd be safely en route back to the way of life he'd cultivated over twenty years; feeling no greater link to London than he felt to France or anywhere else where he had a bridge and a girl.
‘Joe?’ He'd been lost in thought. ‘Tea?’
He cleared his throat but he still sounded hoarse from his long conversation with himself. ‘Please.’
The sound of the kettle busily boiling echoed the fast rattle of his thoughts. Ping. I'll take myself right out of her equation.
‘Maybe Dick'll make his millions, come back, swoop you up and take you to live with him on his ranch.’ (Joe decided that, just as he chose to call Em Emmeline, he'd be referring to her father as Dickle from now on.)
‘Dick? On a ranch?’ Tess baulked. ‘Dick's just a gorgeous, useless, beautiful, crazy dreamer. Even I can see that he's an utter waste of space.’
And, though Joe wasn't too keen on the swoon to Tess's voice, her conviction – heaped as it was with affection and generosity – made Joe quite certain that this Dickle was one area of her life that she really had worked out.
Chapter Eleven (#ulink_63ba1ab1-4567-5028-adac-acc055613b13)
Tess awoke feeling she'd been deprived proper rest. Her sleep had been so busy, so detailed, so involving, that she woke assuming she'd overslept because it felt that her dreams had ensnared her for so long. But the clock said six o'clock and the light, filtering through a gap in the curtains but not making it far into the room, verified this. She knew she had around twenty minutes before Em would wake and these she spent bemused that after over two years during which sex hadn't really crossed her mind, let alone featured on her agenda, three men had infiltrated her sleep in explicit dreams.
She thought back over the details. Dick was in all of them wearing the same beatific smile he famously employed, along with touch, to override the need for much cogent dialogue. In reality, it had irritated her; in last night's dreams it had her fooled. She recalled Dick and Seb together in one scene; that she was running along the pier, coming across the two of them at the end, fishing. Buddies, it appeared. They turned to her and closed in on her and she wasn't entirely sure who kissed her first and who it was kissing her then, and whose were those hands on her breasts, in her hair, grabbing her bum.
Switching on the bedside lamp, Tess dipped into the John Irving paperback that she'd taken from Joe's collection. But drifts of the other dream soon distracted her. Dick again, but this time, Joe too. They weren't in Saltburn. They were crowded with her in the kitchen of the Bounds Green flat. The three of them, pushed against the units. An overriding sense of furtive urgency. Someone, Dick, Joe – she couldn't tell – lifting her onto the work surface. A mouth against hers. A hand between her legs. The feeling of a man's hardness rubbing up against her thigh. One of them taking her hand down to the bulge in his trousers. The feeling of flesh. Her softness. Their firmness. The wetness and the heat. Being about to come.
Tess frowned. She shook her head because she really didn't want to do any more remembering. She didn't want to think about it, because thinking about it was undeniably arousing. That her hand was absent-mindedly between her legs proved the point. The buzz, the release, the sexual attention bestowed on her in the dreams – but she could only chastise herself for being turned on. You should be appalled, she told herself. Because the conclusion to both dreams had been horrible, unimaginable.
Em fending for herself.
Em neglected.
A small distressed baby toddling off down the pier while her mother made out with a surfer and a musician. A tiny tot, alone in the sitting room of a rented flat in Bounds Green, crying while Mummy was having a threesome in the galley kitchen with a musician and a bridge builder.
Tess stared hard at the Loom chair with yesterday's clothes that would have to do for today. What a load of crap. She decided that analysing dreams was as ridiculous as heeding horoscopes.
Mystic Bloody Meg and Sigmund Effing Freud.
This made her smile though still she felt discomfited. If there was meaning to these dreams, what was it exactly? That her desires as a woman, a grown-up, were not compatible with her responsibilities as a mother? That she could be one or the other but not both? In reality she'd all but dispensed with the sexual side of her nature. In the dreams, she'd actively chosen to forsake being a mother. She had heard the baby, seen the baby, been aware of the baby in both – but her lust had ridden roughshod over all sense of maternal duty.
Only stupid dreams.
I am wide awake.
So why am I feeling so wretched?
Because it felt good. I forgot how good it feels to come.
Because it's been a long, long time.
She couldn't afford to consider that these long-dormant cogs, now starting to turn, had come not from dreams, but from events preceding them. Talking about Dick. The realness of Seb. And whatever it was about Joe.
She left the bed to sit cross-legged on the floor, having opened the wardrobe door to see herself in the mirror and give her reflection a stern talking-to.
It doesn't mean anything. Once I had a kinky dream featuring that ugly old bloke who does the weather on TV. It does not mean that I fancy him in reality.
So Seb is cute but that's it. He's about a decade younger than me and lives a life of surf and beaches. And Dick left me high and dry and he's just a stupid boy who thinks he's Jim Morrison but he doesn't even come close.
Tess left the room in a hurry and went to her child's room, chanting to herself ‘Come on Baby Light My Fire’, which was totally inappropriate but it was the only Doors song she could recall just then.
Em was sitting quietly in her cot, bashing the toy lion against a cardboard book, its bead-eye making a satisfying tap. Tess scooped her up and whispered, Emmy Emmy Emmy into her neck.
And I don't fancy Joe. I absolutely cannot fancy Joe. Not just because he can be arrogant and sharp and he takes his beautiful house for granted. But because I'm only his house-sitter. It's like having a stupid crush on the boss. Ridiculous.
‘Aren't you staying around to give me a send-off, then?’ Joe asked an hour or so later, seeing Tess preparing the dog and the child for a walk.
‘Things to do,’ Tess said, busying herself with the zip on Em's cardigan, squatting down on her heels, inadvertently giving Joe an enticing view of the small of her back and beyond. ‘Carpe diem, and all that.’
She was preoccupied but Joe sensed this wasn't caused by a child's zip or a dog in a tangle. Just then, he wanted to crouch beside her, still her hands, say, hey – you OK? But he felt he couldn't very well do that, not least because his departure was imminent.
‘I'll call – if you like,’ he said instead, ‘to let you know when I'll be back.’ He paused. ‘Or just to say hi.’
Tess stopped fiddling, though the dog and child continued with their fidgeting regardless. She looked across and her gaze came to rest at Joe's lower legs. He was standing relaxed, leaning against the wall, his arms folded, looking down at her. He could see the top of her knickers from here. From this advantage point, he thought to himself.
‘OK,’ she said, glancing up at him, wondering why he was smiling like that.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘I'll keep in touch, then.’
She stood. ‘Bye then,’ she said but she loitered. She tickled Em under the chin. ‘Say bye bye to Joe, Em. Bye bye Joe. Say – bye bye.’
But the baby just stared at Joe.
‘Goodbye, Emmeline. Look after Wolf.’ And Joe gave her a little wave that she mimicked.
Ultimately, it was Joe giving them the send-off. He'd be gone by the time they were back.
‘Hey, Tess!’ he called down the driveway. She was just beyond the gate, just about to disappear from view. ‘I'll leave you my mobile number.’ She gave him the thumbs-up.
‘Hey, Tess!’ She turned again. ‘Shall I take yours?’
‘Don't have one,’ she called, ‘not any more.’ She paused. ‘Just call the home phone if you need me.’
Returning to the house, Joe thought he must be losing the plot for thinking how the house seemed deserted without that little lot. Then he scolded himself as a soft sod for again liking the way Tess said ‘home’. She never referred to the Resolution as the house, or your house – nor to the phone as the landline or house phone. Home was the word she always employed, whenever she could. Conversely, he chose not to use it much – the word or the place. He didn't want to hang around; he wanted to be on his way, with his London head on. But still he looked in at Tess's room and Emmeline's before he went. The doors had been closed but he left them ajar; as if inviting the new spirit those rooms now exuded to emanate through the house.
He'd miss them.
For fuck's sake, what was he thinking.
It took the rest of the day for the residual feelings from her dreams to dissipate and by the following morning, Tess felt restored. She also felt more than ready to tackle the tasks she'd set herself. One of which was to keep the doors to Joe's study and bedroom firmly shut.
It was fine and dry and Tess decided to make a start on the boot and utility rooms, taking all the old boots and coats into the garden. She pegged the jackets on the washing line, chucked onto the bonfire heap a waxed jacket so old and neglected that the fabric had cracked, shook out a dusty jumper and decided it still had life in it and just needed a wash. She thought about adding the gumboots to the bonfire pile, so ancient that the rubber had blanched and disintegrated, but she decided to dump them directly in the bin. The same fate awaited the single flip-flop. As it did the golf umbrella that, when opened, rattled and spewed its broken spokes like a science-lab skeleton that had come unscrewed. Anyway, Tess didn't think Joe was the umbrella type. He probably just turned his collar up against inclement weather. Or donned one of those yellow hard hats. She'd come across two already, had tried one on but resisted the urge to fit the straps and take a look.
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