Torn (12 page)

Rory's friend Sasha was also a ‘mornings only' pupil. On several occasions she'd come home with them at lunchtime. The arrangement was negotiated with her grandmother, Gilda. Jessica would give Sasha and Rory lunch, typically chicken or fish bites served with mash and peas, then she would leave them to play. Play involved much running up and down the stairs and squealing. The door at the bottom especially enthralled Sasha. To her this proved the staircase must be a secret passage. Jess was willing to put up with a bit of noise and some interruptions as long as they were happy. Around five o'clock, when the children were drinking milk and snacking, Gilda would pull up outside in her bright red Golf.

‘You must let Rory come to me next. How about next Tuesday?'

Practised at judging quality, Jessica studied the older woman as they sat at the kitchen table drinking tea. Possessed of the confident elegance that money and a sense of your own good breeding endow, Gilda looked fit and energetic. She was well spoken, her hands were manicured, her clothes from the Jaeger end of the high street, and the car she drove was new. It was easy to see the line of inheritance through to Sasha. They shared an olive complexion, and Gilda had the same liquorice brown eyes, although the skin around hers was darkly pigmented. Sasha's hair was as dark as, if not darker than, Rory's and it seemed likely that her grandmother's had been the same ebony colour. Now, Gilda's thick, silvery white hair, sculpted into a fashionable shape by a very good stylist, only emphasised her appearance of tanned health. It was evident the woman had been a beauty; even though the crazing of her complexion revealed a life of over-exposure to the sun, and the skin of her neck had loosened beneath her chin, she still retained the unconscious assurance of the good looking woman.

‘That would be lovely. It would give me the whole day free.'

‘Well, that's the idea. I want to repay the favour. Sasha is my only grandchild and I do love her to bits, but it is so refreshing to be able to go shopping in Ciren or Bath, perhaps meet friends for lunch, without worrying about the time.'

To Jess the idea of an unencumbered day of shopping and lunching seemed suddenly very desirable indeed. ‘I take it you're Sasha's full-time carer?'

‘Sadly, yes. I've been living with my son and looking after her since his wife died two and a half years ago.'

‘I'm so sorry.'

‘Yes. You get to a point in your life where you just don't expect to be thrust back into the role of mother again and it comes a bit hard.'

‘I meant … How tragic! She must have been young, your daughter-in-law?'

‘Serena? Oh, somewhere in her mid-twenties,' Gilda responded vaguely, then added with more feeling. ‘Poor Sasha. Not that she remembers her mother.'

‘Your son must be grateful for your help?'

‘He's not yet completely recovered from the trauma and he still takes me for granted, as he should. When you love someone you don't expect reward. I daresay James will come to appreciate my support, what I have given up, when things are a bit less fraught.' She paused at the front door and gave her head a little shake. ‘Anyway I shall look forward to having Rory next week.'

‘Thanks. Oh, and make sure you keep your mobile phone safe while you're entertaining my son. He has a fixation about mine and keeps swiping it. If I'm lucky I find it in his toy box.'

Gilda laughed. ‘And if you are unlucky?'

‘I've the number saved on my landline. So I phone it and when it starts chirruping, I hunt it down!'

‘And if he has turned it off, or the battery has run down?'

‘Don't! That hasn't happened … yet!'

‘They are rascals at this age, aren't they? Into everything. Come along, Sasha. Time to go.' She gazed for a moment out of the open door. ‘You have a lovely view from here. Such a pity …'

Chapter Eight

Stark against the blue-white fields, poplar cypresses lined the long driveway. At their foot, the grubby shovelled snow was banked up. Just as well. If left uncleared she'd have been driving blind over deep potholes. The car bumped slowly down the long driveway, across the narrow river on a single-track bridge, then climbed again. When the house came into view Jessica's mouth dropped open in a silent ‘Oh!'

Even in the fading light she could appreciate its charm. Built from the honey-coloured stone of the region – drip mouldings, a central front door and the roof stone-tiled – it had to be at least three hundred years old. Outbuildings on two further sides of the square forecourt gave the impression of driving into a courtyard. The central area of the flagged yard had been swept, but around its perimeter the snow lay undisturbed by anything more than the tracks of birds. Near the house, last year's bedding plants were just a blackened tangle in the snow filled stone troughs. The only living plants Jess could see were in tubs on either side of the front door, but even these pansies had been pole-axed by the cold.

Ever since Gilda had given Jessica the address, anxious speculation had run around in her head. So, Gore Farm, the site of an apparently bloody civil war battle, was where dark-haired, dark-eyed Sasha lived with her granny and …? Her daddy and who else? Jess had asked no one directly, but from her own gradual amassing of knowledge about the area she'd begun to realise that this was the major farm in the locality. And its gates were only a quarter of a mile from Skirmish Bridge.

Only Gilda's Golf was parked in the courtyard, and a bike leant against the huge double doors of a stone built barn. Plenty of room for her BMW. All was quiet. Nobody appeared to be about until she heard the sound of hammering coming from one of the barns. Bracing herself Jessica knocked on the front door. It was Gilda who answered it. From another room could be heard the whine of a vacuum cleaner. When they'd first conversed about Gilda's situation as carer for her granddaughter, Jessica had assumed ‘head cook and bottle washer' included in the job. Typical of a man to get his mother in to do his dirty work as soon as the wife was out of the picture. But these people didn't do their own cleaning; Gilda probably never had. Doubtless there was some poor old Mrs Mop who struggled around this big house with her Dyson, dusters, and beeswax.

‘Come in, come in, welcome. Have you had a good day?'

Allowed a day off from childcare duties, Jess had been tempted by the cornucopia of delights Gilda described. In the past ‘just looking' would have been sufficient inducement for her to head for a fashionable shopping centre. She'd no need to justify a shopping spree. But now? Earlier, she'd stood in her bedroom and looked at the jam-packed wardrobe and stuffed chest of drawers. What did she need so urgently that a trip to Cheltenham or Cirencester was warranted? And as for lunch — who with?

‘Nothing exciting. Spent the morning on the computer and then intended to get on with making some curtains, but instead went to the supermarket.'

‘Are there not curtains there? I thought the cottages were let furnished?'

‘They are. It was. The only piece I needed was a bed for Rory. I'd be hard pressed to get another stick into the place. But the curtains are old and musty, and in Rory's room they started to shred when I looked at them. So …'

‘I suppose you can't afford to have them made?'

‘I could afford to, but I'd like to do it myself.'

‘You are clever!' Gilda said, in the tone of one who would never in a million years even consider such a thing. As they'd talked in the hall Jess had taken off her jacket and removed her shoes.

‘Hardly. For me it's all a part of the attraction of living in the country, like growing vegetables, wine making, home-made bread, but …'

‘Come through to the sitting room.'

Jessica's qualification had missed its moment. The hallway had been large enough, but the drawing room took up the depth of the house. Windows gave out onto the flagged forecourt and an enclosed kitchen garden at the back. The furnishings had been chosen with taste, but were not the conventional country house chintzes and antiques Jessica might have expected. Positioned between two facing sofas was a sturdy oblong table. Made from a dark wood and its chunky legs primitively carved with mythic and fabulous creatures, it looked like a piece from the Far East.

‘
And
you work on the computer! Goodness! My son has one, of course, but I don't know what he does on it apart from using it as a glorified typewriter … and emailing of course. And he has one of those … blackcurrant things.' Jess bit her lip. ‘Do you surf the interweb?' Gilda continued, with an arch, self-conscious flourish. ‘And I suppose you are a Twitterer! Do sit down.'

Again, Jess had to suppress amusement, but this time it was a mixed emotion. She'd bowed out of all social networking since she'd left London. It would be too easy for Sean to track her down. Even if he couldn't find her physical address, she'd not put it past him to harass and cyber-stalk her.

‘No. I don't tweet, but I've been using computers since childhood! Couldn't live without being connected. I don't do much random surfing, but the internet is invaluable for email, shopping, banking … oh, and for looking up share prices and trading.' True, but it had been a while since she'd done any buying or selling. This morning, while still flirting with the idea of going out to shop, she'd been using her laptop to find local stockists for her favourite fashion houses.

‘Obviously you're a modern, self-sufficient young woman of many talents.'

‘I don't know about that.' It would be better if she could feel she'd earned the compliment. ‘As for self-sufficient, I've had to be. I've Rory to look after. My most important job is to provide him with a safe, secure upbringing.'

‘Right.' Gilda nodded in approval, as though she'd provided the correct answer to a quiz question. Jess felt oddly guilty. ‘Well, I'd better organise a pot of tea.'

Left alone in the drawing room Jess had half expected to hear the distant giggles, squeals, and thundering feet of children playing but, apart from the continued drone of the vacuum cleaner, all was quiet. Shortly Gilda re-entered the room with a tray of tea things, and set it down on the exotic coffee table.

‘The children are outside,' she said, as if reading Jessica's thoughts. ‘They're not unsupervised. They're with the lad. Don't worry, he'll look after them.'

Last time they'd spoken, Jess had felt sorry for a woman in her late middle years suddenly thrust back into the role of mother to a pre-school child. Yet in a house like this, with a cleaner and ‘the lad' – whoever that lad might turn out to be – to supervise the children when playing outside, this surely wasn't an unenviable life. Now she noticed, with a flicker of concern, that there were three cups and saucers beside the sugar bowl, teapot, and milk jug on the tray.

They talked for a few minutes about Sasha and Rory, and the nursery school. It was Gilda who'd suggested Sasha take her rabbit along to the nativity play.

‘Our lambs don't come along till February or March,' she explained. ‘I don't know how the shepherds in biblical times managed to produce lambs before Christmas. What did they feed them on in all that snow?'

Not sure whether the woman was joking, Jessica was spared from having to follow this remark by the sound of a vehicle pulling into the yard, followed by some excited barks.

‘James!' Gilda said, looking at her watch. ‘At last!' She got up quickly and left the room. After the sound of the front door opening, several minutes passed before Jessica heard her hostess talking to someone. The man's voice enquired, ‘Whose is the Beamer?' Of her reply Jess heard the words ‘single mother', ‘head screwed on', and ‘very capable' from the hallway.

The earlier pulse of misgiving strengthened. It was clear her remarks about baking, gardening, and home handicrafts had been taken at face value. In reality a few metres of fabric, the sewing machine, and a DIY soft furnishings book had only recently been purchased. She should have made clear to Gilda that these activities were aspirations rather than present fact. They were part of a soft focus dream of living in the country – a dream of transformation from the woman she was to a creative earth mother, who'd rather re-upholster a chair, bottle fruit, or make potato cuts with her child than slob out, a bottle of Chateau Supermarket at her elbow in front of some mindless TV.

The voices neared the drawing room. She heard Gilda add, ‘… one of those bank traders.' The mild amusement Jess had felt at her imagined self, elbow deep in flour, abruptly drained away. The man's expletive was followed by, ‘… was people like her that caused all the trouble.'

‘Shush! Be nice.' The door swung open.

‘Jessica, I'd like you to meet my son, James,' Gilda declared as she preceded the man into the room. ‘And James, this is Jessica Avery.'

Until this moment Jess had managed to dismiss her speculations about the set up at Gore Farm as over-heated and outlandish. Such things only happened in pulp fiction. Now she had to clamp her mouth to prevent it from gaping. Standing by the door, and looking as displeased as she was by the coincidence, was the man she'd assumed was an employee – perhaps an estate worker or gamekeeper – of some local landowner. He was slightly shorter than she remembered, but just as powerfully built. His unkempt curly hair was as near to black as his daughter's, his eyes as pebble dark, and his face – jaw shadowed by stubble, skin tanned by exposure to all weathers – could have been carved from a squared block of stone. But the frisson of ‘a force to be reckoned with' which electrified the atmosphere as he entered the room, was instantly defused by his feet. He, like her, was shoeless and his loose fit jeans were still tucked into yellow Homer Simpson Socks.

‘Pleased to meet you,' Jessica managed.

‘Oh, James, you could have shaved!' Gilda seemed not to notice the awkward pause. You look like a gypsy! I told you a friend was coming by. Jessica is renting Weavers Cottage.'