Restoring Grace

Chapter
One

 
It's a lovely house, thought Ellie.
Perfect proportions. Probably Georgian, Queen Anne, something like that.

There were five sets of small-paned sash
windows in the house and a couple of dormers in the roof. The front
door had a fanlight above it and a neat path led
up to
the jasmine-covered porch.
Looks just like a doll's house,
she thought, and then laughed at
herself: doll's houses were built to look like real houses, not the other way
round.

The high walls which enclosed the garden were
of fine grey stone and, peering through the gate, she saw care
fully pruned fruit trees interspersed with
something less
formal, possibly
roses, growing up them. A large patch
of
fragile mauve crocuses broke up the green of the lawn
and there were clumps of daffodils lining the
path. It was
a perfect time, and although the details of the flowers
weren't really important from Ellie's point of view, the house looked utterly
charming, despite the icy wind.

She put down her bag and
inspected the gate. It looked
sturdy enough and she put her foot
in the gap between the posts, trusting it would take her weight, and hauled
herself up for a better view.

Propped against a stone
pillar, one of a pair that framed
the gate, she could see the house in
its entirety. It was
what estate agents
would call a gem. It looked empty, but
there
could easily be someone observing her from behind
one of the windows which glinted so symmetrically
back
at her. Hoping fervently that there wasn't anybody
looking – it would be so
embarrassing, humiliating even
– she jumped
down. Then she remembered, and
wondered whether, in the circumstances,
she ought to have jumped.

Sighing, she fished her camera out of her bag
and climbed back up to her vantage point. She adjusted the shutter speed and
aperture, and fiddled with the focus,
wishing
she had more up-to-date equipment which
would do these things for her.
It wasn't as if she was a photographer, after all. She just wanted a picture of
the house.

She took several shots, got back down to ground
level and put the camera back in her bulging raffia bag. Then
she took out her nose-stud, which was tiny and
silver but
could still appear threatening to certain sorts of people,
removed two of her earrings (leaving only a single pair),
and tweaked at her clothes and hair. It was
important to
appear respectable; owners of Georgian rectories tended to
be on the conventional side.

As she tucked a strand of scarlet hair under
her bandanna, she realised she had no real idea of the effect of her fiddling:
she could be making herself look like a tepee-dwelling New-Age traveller, or
the doorstep equivalent of a second-hand car salesman. However, she put her
shoulders back, picked up her bag and opened the gate. This was the brave bit.

The owners of such a house must be affluent,
she thought, determined to be positive. She just hoped they didn't have dogs.

‘
Not that I
don't like dogs,' Ellie muttered, in case they
did have dogs and they
were listening. 'I just don't want to be bounced on, not just now.’

But no dogs came bounding
up, plunging their friendly
but forceful paws into her stomach
(as had happened in
the last place), and
she made it to the front door unmud
died and able to breathe normally.
Then she took a deep
breath and pulled hard
at the knob which protruded from the stone door jamb, hoping it was attached to
something.
It jangled encouragingly, but waiting for the door to be
opened was always the worst part. She ran her tongue round the inside of her
mouth so it wasn't dry, and her lips wouldn't get caught on her teeth when she
stopped smiling. Then she relaxed her mouth so she could smile sincerely the
moment the door was opened.

She didn't have to wait long. A young woman
wearing
several layers of jumpers, cardigans
and scarves over her
jeans, sheepskin boots and an anxious expression,
answered it quite quickly. Almost certainly not
the owner,
Ellie decided, more likely the daughter of the house.
Probably a bit older than she was herself – late
twenties, early thirties – she had an ethereal quality, enhanced by
her
draperies, as if she had been out of the world for a while. Her hair was light
brown, recently washed and looked difficult to manage. Ellie thought she
probably needed some sort of product to get it under control, but this woman
didn't look as if she'd ever heard of styling
wax
or mousse. Her eyes were a sludgy green, reminding
Ellie of a
semi-precious stone someone had brought her back from India once, and a few
freckles peppered her nose and cheekbones. Ellie liked freckles; she had them
herself, and seeing them on this woman gave her confidence.

‘Hello,' she said. 'I wonder if I can interest
you in a picture of your house . . . your parents' house?’

The young woman shook her head, making her
shiny hair even more disarrayed. 'No, it's my house.’

This was a bit of a
surprise, but Ellie tried not to show
it.
'Well, I've just taken some photographs of it, and if
you're interested, I could paint a watercolour from them.
See?'
Ellie produced her album from the bag. In it were photographs of houses, and
next to them, photographs
of the pictures
she had painted. Then, deftly, she produced
an actual painting, mounted but not framed. 'And here's
one I
did earlier!' She laughed, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

The young woman took the
sample painting. 'It's
lovely. The trouble is, I couldn't
possibly afford—'

‘I'm very reasonable. I could do you one for
about fifty pounds. Unframed.'

‘That is reasonable,' the woman agreed. 'But
the thing
is . . .' She paused, sighing. 'On
the other hand, a painting
would be lovely if . .’

Ellie shifted her weight to her other foot. It
would be fatal to rush this woman when she might be about to
decide to have a painting, but on the other hand,
her need
to go to the loo, which had been faint but bearable up to now,
was becoming more pressing. Jumping off the gate hadn't helped.

‘I'm sorry I'm being so slow to make up my
mind,' the woman went on, still gazing at the sample painting with her head on
one side.

‘
You're not.
People take ages.' Ellie regarded the
woman more thoroughly. 'I'm sorry,
I know it's an awful cheek, but would you mind terribly if I used your loo?
Normally, I'd just hang on but I'm pregnant.' She
blushed
as she said it. She'd told almost no one, not even her parents,
and it was shocking to hear the word out loud.

‘
Oh! God!
How lovely! Of course! Do come in. The
place is in a bit of a state, I'm
afraid.' The young woman opened the door.

Ellie paused on the
doorstep. 'I'm Ellie, Ellie Summers.' She took hold of the woman's hand. 'It
seems sort of rude
to use your loo when you don't know my name.’

The woman laughed and instantly became pretty.
'I'm Grace - Ravenglass or Soudley.' She wrinkled her fore
head in thought. 'I'm recently divorced and I
can't decide
if I should go back to my own name.’

As they shook hands Ellie wondered what it was about
this young woman that made her feel
all right about mentioning her pregnancy. Possibly it was because she appeared
slightly vulnerable too.

‘Come in,'
said Grace. 'I'll show you where to go.’

*

Grace hadn't opened her front door to anyone
except builders for a while, but there was something about the girl - Ellie -
which she warmed to. It might be to do with her easy smile, bright clothes and
even brighter hair escaping from under her scarf, but more likely it was
because she was fairly near her own age and
female. She
hadn't had any contact
with someone like that for aeons.

She probably wouldn't buy
a picture - she could never
justify the expense - but she felt
OK about ushering the
girl down the passage
to the downstairs cloakroom,
freshly cleaned for tonight.

She hovered in the kitchen nearby so she could
hear
when Ellie had finished and she could
show her out. She rearranged the bottles on the table, scouring her memory
for where she might find something else to sit on.
Her
few chairs were already in place
round the table, but there
were a couple of empty spaces which would
have to be filled by something. There were probably some more tea
chests in the attic. They were a bit high, but
comfortable
enough if she put cushions on them. Luckily she had
plenty of cushions. A fan heater was valiantly
gusting
into the icy air, as yet
making no impression on the cold.

She heard the
old-fashioned flush and was ready when
Ellie
emerged.

‘It's a lovely house,' Ellie said eagerly.
'Even the cloak
room has got period
features. I love that cistern! And the
washbasin! Just like an old
washstand, only china!'
Realising she'd run
off at the mouth again, she bit her
lip. 'Oh, sorry. I hope I didn't
sound too like an estate agent.'

‘
It is a lovely house,' agreed Grace, pleased
with Ellie's
enthusiasm. If everyone reacted like
that she need feel less worried about opening her house to strangers. 'If
rather on the cold side.' On an impulse she added,
'Would
you like a bit of a tour? I could do with the practice.'

‘What do you mean? You're not opening the house
to the public, are you?’

Grace laughed. 'Not
exactly, but I have got lots of
people I don't
know from Adam coming this evening,
and I haven't
had anyone here for ages.' She frowned.
'Of
course, I won't let them out of the kitchen except to go to the loo. But I
wouldn't mind showing you round.'

‘Well, if it would be useful, I'd
love
a tour.' Ellie didn't hide her
excitement. 'I love houses. I suppose that's why I paint them.’

I must be mad, thought
Grace as she led the way down the passage, inviting people in off the street to
look round
my freezing cold house. No, she consoled
herself, Ellie
had shown interest; she
wanted to see the house. It wasn't
as
if there was anything in it that would make it a target
for burglars, after all. As they passed the
kitchen, she said,
'Shall I put the kettle on? Would you like a cup of
tea or coffee afterwards? I was just about to have one myself when you rang the
doorbell.'

‘
That would
be great, if you're making one. When I
was
looking for a loo earlier, I couldn't find anything that
wasn't a pub or
an antique shop, and they were both closed. Nothing like a coffee shop for
miles.'

‘No, we are very far away from everything here.
How did you find me?'

‘I drove past the other day, when I was
delivering a picture and got lost. When I saw your house, I knew it would make
a lovely painting.'

‘
I'm sure it
would—' Grace became diffident again, and
Ellie hurried on.

‘
No pressure, honestly. I do understand about
being broke.' She paused, embarrassed by her frankness. 'You
may not be broke, of course . . .' She shivered,
although she
tried not to,
inadvertently drawing attention to the cold.
'Broke about covers it.
I'll put the kettle on.’

*

'Well, then, this is the
hall, obviously.' Grace stood in the
square, panelled space from which a
stone, uncarpeted,
staircase led to a small
gallery. She had always liked the
way the shadows of the window bars
patterned the bare stone flags, revealing their unevenness.

‘
And here's
the drawing room,' she went on, when Ellie
had had time to admire the
perfect proportions, the fine panelling and the arched space under the stairs
which now contained boxes of wine and glasses.