It's Raining Men (34 page)

‘Book me the room next door,’ said May. ‘Clare, you and Lud can come and visit us.’

I won’t be visiting, said Clare to herself. I’ll be right there with you, ladies.

Clare awoke early the next morning, disturbed by a dream in which she spotted Ludwig in the village square and, just as she waved over, delighted to see him, a beautiful thin
blonde woman threw her arms around him and he reciprocated. As much as she waved and tried to attract his attention he would not be interrupted. The dream was so vivid that she woke up and found
her pillow wet with tears. She knew she wouldn’t drop back to sleep, so she put on her swimming costume, rolled a towel up under her arm, picked up her torch and headed for the lagoon.

The day was naturally overcast outside. For once there were real clouds in the sky weighed down with rain, as well as those strange grey puffs. But down in the cave the water was bright, clear
and blue-green, and for Clare it was a world separate from the one she wasn’t sure she wanted to go back to. She would have been happy as a mermaid, she thought. She wished she could hold her
breath for hours. As she dived down she felt nothing of the pressures of work awaiting her return, the constant struggle to please her parents, the stress of losing Lud. It was as if nothing bad
could follow her under the water; she was happy and safe there. Eventually, when she had to surface and breathe in air, her sad, sad tears joined the salty waters of the pool.

In the end it was as easy to get hold of the parish records as it had been to find Edwin’s will. Joan arranged herself in a pose, one to give an unambiguous impression
that she was deep in thought as she drank the morning coffee which Gladys had wheeled in on her trolley. To her relief it prompted Edwin to ask her what the matter was.

‘Oh, sorry.’ Joan smiled and shook herself out of her fake state of preoccupation. ‘I was just wondering if there were any parish records in the village. I had a conversation
with my mother last night and she reckons that we had relatives living in Ren Dullem. Apparently we are related to the Moodys who lived here. Fifth cousins, I think she said.’

‘Really?’ Edwin said, spraying custard-cream crumbs from his mouth. ‘How marvellous. That’s why you gravitated to us – you’re a true local.’

‘Strange, isn’t it?’ chuckled Joan. ‘That’s why I must have felt at home from the first moment I came here.’

‘The parish records are all here in this very house.’ Edwin was animated with excitement. ‘They’re in the drawers in the library. There wasn’t enough room in the
church to keep them, so they were moved here. They used to be kept in the church crypt but the damp was destroying them. The earlier records have a great deal of foxing on them and are barely
readable, alas.’

He pulled himself to his feet, though it took a couple of practice attempts. ‘Come with me, Joan. I’d be delighted to show you. We can look for your relatives together.’

She followed his funny little curved back down to the dull, brown library. Edwin pulled open the long heavy curtains at the window to let in more light but it didn’t make much difference,
and neither did putting on the main lights – they must have totalled all of five watts.

Luckily there was a very elegant Anglepoise lamp on the desk.

‘The library should have been a south-facing room, not a north-facing one,’ said Edwin, switching on the lamp. ‘Ridiculous design. I expect Jacob Carlton, who built the house,
wasn’t one of life’s great readers.’ He walked over to the bottom shelf. It looked full of books, but now, with the improved lighting, Joan could see it was a faux cover. Edwin
slid it back to reveal a stack of heavy leather-bound tomes. Joan leapt to his aid when he tried to pick one up and almost toppled over.

‘I’m not sure if they are stored in order,’ said Edwin. ‘What dates were you looking for?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied Joan. ‘I thought I’d start with the twentieth century, right at the beginning of it.’

She wished Edwin would bugger off and let her get on with it.

The first book was one of the very badly age-spotted volumes that had been stored in the church crypt, but luckily it contained records from far earlier than Joan was interested in. The second
she picked out was in good condition but, again, too early. The third – in the words of Goldilocks – was just right: ‘1900 – PRESENT DAY’.

‘I shouldn’t really be looking at them in work time,’ said Joan.

‘Nonsense,’ said Edwin. ‘It’s rather thrilling to be Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple for a while.’

‘It could take ages.’

‘Even better.’ Edwin twinkled.

Damn, thought Joan. Still, seeing them with him was better than not seeing them at all. She opened the book to the first page and pretended to be interested in a marriage certificate dated 1904:
Frederick and Anne Coffey.

‘A relative of Gladys – how interesting,’ trilled Joan.

‘Well, by marriage. Gladys is a Shaw of course. There will be a record of her birth in the later records.’

1905, 1906, 1907 . . . There were records of deaths and marriages between familiar family names: William Arnold Bird and Florence Hathersage died, Anna Bird married Stephen Unwin, Thomas Hubbard
married Maria Docherty from Wellem. Then there were the births: Martha Unwin, Catherine and Mary Smith, James Ward, Dor is Dickinson, Grace Landers . . . on and on. Joan’s heart was
quickening with anticipation as she turned to the next page. 1909: a son born to Edith and Ebenezer Acaster Seymour. A child who ended up being buried on unconsecrated ground and was closely
connected to R, Edwin Carlton’s heir.

At ten o’clock the others were still sleeping. They’d spent the previous evening having a cathartic bitch about Michael and James and Tianne, whilst half watching
some TV, which was once again possible thanks to Gene Hathersage removing the signal-jamming aerial. But it was now eleven hours since they had all turned in for the night, and if that didn’t
prove their batteries were run down, nothing did. Would they ever get back into the swing of starting the day at five o’clock in the morning?

After her swim, Clare was wide awake and full of beans; it was a tense, nervous energy, though, that needed burning off. She picked up her tin of cleaning things and headed off for Raine’s
cottage, as she had promised to return. There was no sign of Val Hathersage near Spice Wood, not that she thought there would be at that hour. She didn’t know if she was relieved or
disappointed by that.

Raine was delighted to see her and greeted her warmly.

‘Oh, my dear Clare,’ she said, her plump, old face beaming. ‘I hoped you’d come back.’

Clare smiled. ‘I’m a perfectionist. I never leave a job half done. I told you I’d be back and I’m a woman of my word.’

‘My lady who brings my meals in the evening thought she was in the wrong house,’ said Raine. ‘You’re so very, very kind.’ Then she noticed Clare’s wet black
hair. ‘Have you been for a swim today? In my lagoon?’

Clare smoothed her hand over her head. ‘I didn’t want to use the hair-dryer in case I woke my friends,’ she explained. ‘Yes, I’ve been for a swim. The water was
beautiful.’
Just what I needed. I don’t know how I’m going to be able to bear to leave it.

‘I miss it so much,’ said Raine sadly. ‘I haven’t swum in a very long time. I wish I could see it again.’

‘How did you used to get down there?’ asked Clare, taking various bottles out of her tin. ‘Were you able to walk when you were younger?’

‘No, I’ve never been able to walk,’ said Raine. ‘My husband used to carry me.’

Clare’s head was suddenly suffused with a romantic picture of that. She saw Raine, long golden hair streaming behind her, smooth and lithe as a rippled ribbon in the water; her young
husband a perfect match for her. She sighed.

Her hand stilled on the bottle of bleach she’d been unscrewing. ‘There must be some way of getting you back down to the lagoon.’ She thought hard. It would be a feat and a half
but not impossible, surely.

‘If I saw it, I could never bear to leave it again.’ Raine’s old head shook slowly from side to side. ‘No, it’s best I remember it in my memories only.’

‘Can I get you a drink before I start?’

‘A cup of water would be nice, please.’

Clare filled up a cup and delivered it to Raine’s hands. ‘You’re so cold,’ she said, closing her warm fingers over Raine’s chilled ones. ‘Can I light a fire
for you?’

‘Thank you, but no,’ said Raine. ‘I don’t like to be too hot. This temperature in here is fine for me.’

Clare set to work in the kitchen. Whoever came to look after Raine wasn’t very good at washing down surfaces, she thought with a huff. The window in there afforded the most beautiful view
over the cove. The skies were very dramatic today: grey clouds were being buffeted and bullied on their way by the wind and the sea was restless and dark.

Raine studied the young woman now climbing up on the chair to clean the inside of the kitchen window. Such a pretty girl with her neat twenties-style black bobbed hair, but too many clouds in
her two-coloured eyes. She had a head that was telling her heart all the wrong things, Raine could tell. She wheeled herself nearer to the kitchen door.

‘What do you think of Ren Dullem?’ she asked. ‘Now you’ve been here a few days more.’

Clare stopped working and tilted her head to the side in thought. ‘I think it’s the strangest place I’ve ever been to in my life,’ she eventually concluded. ‘But I
like it.’ Faced with delivering her opinion of the place, Clare realized that she had settled into life here more than she ever thought she would. The thought of not being able to open a door
in her bedroom and tread down to an underground cavern was one she didn’t want to contemplate at the moment. She was trying hard to think of the here and now and not project about what life
would be like in a few days’ time.

‘Ren Dullem needs people like you,’ said Raine. ‘It is craving an injection of life and passion and care. It has become worn down by its duties. When I first came here, it was
the prettiest little place I’d ever seen. I was in love with it. I was in love with the people. I know now I shouldn’t have come.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘People say that you can’t fool yourself,’ said Raine, smiling sadly. ‘Oh, but you can if you try. Or at least you can override the evidence that is staring you in the
face. But eventually, eventually, the truth becomes too hard to ignore. I think you know what I mean.’

Clare coughed. She had become a past master at overriding her true feelings. Stamping other people’s ideas of what her life should be like over her own and pretending to accept them had
become a way of life to her. But her anxiety dreams every night and her bitten-down fingernails were evidence that the truth was seeping out. Clare switched her mind back into work mode and gave
her full attention to the windowsill. She had brought an old toothbrush to get right into the grooves.

Through the window the clouds were tumbling over themselves as if running scared.

‘There’s going to be a summer storm, I think,’ said Clare.

‘I shall enjoy the view,’ said Raine. ‘There is nowhere better in the world to see a storm than at High Top.’ In the distance they heard a growl of thunder. There would
be a bigger storm soon in Ren Dullem. Then the skies would clear and finally the sunshine could appear once again.

Lara was crushing up more comfrey leaves on the kitchen table with the end of a rolling pin, in the absence of a pestle and mortar in the kitchen of Well Cottage, when there
was a heavy-handed knock on the door.

She hopped across and opened it to find the imposing figure of Gene Hathersage there, his hands behind his back.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said. ‘Come in. I’m just crushing mend-skin.’

‘Knit-bone,’ he corrected. ‘How’s the ankle?’

‘Not bad at all,’ said Lara, in all honesty. The swelling had gone down completely and the bruising had faded from black to light brown as if the healing had been accelerated. She
hadn’t put a lot of credence in claims of herb-magic before, but she was in severe danger of having to eat her words.

‘I brought you this,’ he said, and from behind his back he produced a wooden crutch. ‘I measured it against the mark on the wall so it should be the right height.’

‘Ah, that’s why you stuck your pencil under my arm.’

His eyebrows formed a dipped arch of confusion as if he was thinking: why else would I have done that? ‘Try it.’

‘Oh, that’s very kind of you. Thank you.’ She accepted it, placed it under her arm and assumed the pose of Long John Silver. ‘I didn’t see a fish.’

‘Fish?’

‘Your signature.’

‘I can whittle you one, if you insist.’

‘Why not? I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘Then tea for me, please, if you’re offering.’

There was enough milk for two cups. May had gone down to the shop for some more just before Gene arrived. It was a wonder they hadn’t passed each other.

Gene took a knife out of his back pocket and reached for the crutch.

‘You do realize that if I carve you a fish on here, the value of this instantly increases by ten,’ he said.

‘I’ll remember to mention that on eBay.’

Jesus, she bet he hadn’t a clue what eBay was. Was that possible in this day and age?

‘It’s a sort of shop,’ explained Lara. ‘On the Internet.’

‘I know,’ said Gene indignantly. ‘We might not get the Internet in Ren Dullem but I am aware of what it is. I’ll go into Wellem if I need to use it.’

Maybe if Great-Uncle Milton stopped fannying about with his signals you might be able to use it here, thought Lara. This really must be the only place on earth not to have the Internet and yet
everyone seemed to cope quite adequately as they had done in the days before mobiles and the net and Facebook, which weren’t that long ago really. She wondered what Tianne’s timeline
would be saying. She was glad she couldn’t torture herself by checking.

‘It’ll only be a little one,’ said Gene, his knife nibbling expertly at the wood.

‘I was really only joking about the fish.’ Lara felt slightly cheeky now.