What Have I Done? (16 page)

Kathryn clicked the kettle on to boil. The salmon fillets were herb encrusted and roasting nicely, the asparagus and ribboned courgettes sat in their steamer and there was ten minutes before
she had to make herself ‘neat and pretty’. She extracted the thin book from its hiding place between two cookery books. She knew no one would consider looking between
Jamie’s Italy
and
Jamie Does
… . Kathryn thumbed open R. K. Narayan’s
Tales from Malgudi.

The snippets of books that she managed to devour were enough to transport her, to give her the means of escape in the spare minutes of her day. The time constraints allowed her little more than eighty words at any one reading, but those eighty words were her salvation. For the next few hours, her mind would be full of questions. How old was Rao? Where did he live? How did he die and at what age?

Kathryn took her cup of tea upstairs to the dressing table and sat in front of its triple mirrors, angled to show her whichever way she glanced. There was no escape.

She placed her finger against the cool glass of the mirror and traced the reflection of her nose, eyes and mouth. She stared at the image in front of her, the face of a sad lady trapped inside the mirror who needed to practise her smile. Kathryn was unable to decide which the real image was. Was it the flat, cool face that stared back at her or the bewildered, lonely mask from
behind which she viewed the world? Withdrawing her hand, she realised that it didn’t matter. The flat-featured woman that stared blankly from the glass and the veiled lids through which she saw were one and the same.

At such moments Kathryn felt she was living in a state close to madness. She figured that as long as she recognised how she lived was indeed ‘mad’ then there was always hope.

She combed her sticky hair and placed a marcasite clip in the side, to try and distract from the texture. What had Dominic said that morning? ‘
You look like a mental patient
.’ Any nasty statement hurt, but its impact was doubled if not trebled when it came from someone you loved.

She applied a little rouge to her cheeks and sprayed scent along her décolletage. As usual, the words of the song entered her head and spun around until she listened and gave them an audience:

The house on the Cornish cliff could best be described as ‘rambling’. It had been constructed at the beginning of the twentieth century when there had been no shortage of local building materials and was a collaboration between an extravagant and whimsical architect who had a fancy for New England, and a wealthy tin baron who wanted a home befitting his station. The result was corridors that led nowhere in particular and a property that boasted not one but three Gothic-style turrets and innumerable church-style windows that let little light into the small square rooms that they graced. A decked terrace ran along the front of the property, held up with thick porch posts and gabled arches that gave the whole place a feeling of New Hampshire.

A wooden swing-seat just big enough for two adults of close acquaintance had been suspended from a length of industrial rope and hung in pride of place to the left of the front door. In the summer it would be padded with comfortable striped cushions, making it the perfect place to while away the warm evenings. Kate pictured herself with a glass of wine in hand and her toes rocking back and forth on the deck; it would transport her back to those hot Caribbean evenings, with the sound of the waves and chirping crickets confirming that she was in paradise. The only thing missing would be the dulcet tones of a certain reverend, whom she would happily have budged up for.

The front of the house was half timbered and one of Kate’s first jobs had been to restore the wood and paint it a pale duck egg blue. This ensured that Prospect House blended perfectly with the sea and sky against which it sat.

The phone rang on the desk in the study. It was perched on a stack of papers, all awaiting her attention with varying degrees of urgency. Kate hadn’t realised there would be quite so many administrative hoops to jump through before she could make her dreams a reality. She figured that if the demands were that pressing, the topic would come to light again, a bit like cream rising to the top or a bobbing apple in a busy Halloween bucket.

‘Prospect House.’ Kate still felt a certain thrill at saying the name. She balanced the phone between her head and her shoulder, crooked to one side.

Kate loved the place in which she now lived. When she had sat in the car park on the harbourside five months earlier with the windows rolled down and the unforgiving Cornish wind buffeting her car, it had been the name that had initially drawn her. She had looked out across the harbour wall and thought of Simon as she sometimes did, wondering how his construction project was coming along. He was often never more than a small reminder away.

The estate agent’s details had fluttered in her palm, the third or fourth set that she had flicked through; the name made her do a double-take, immediately pushing it higher up the list than ‘Jasmine Cottage’ and ‘The Lodge’.

Her pulse had quickened. ‘Surely not!’

But there it was in black and white: ‘Prospect House’, on the market and, miraculously, excitingly within budget.

It had turned into a momentous day: not only did the
property match the one that had existed in her head for a while, but she immediately realised that it was not meant to be just a holiday house. Penmarin could actually become the place she called home.

The house had been named for the amazing sea view from its prime cliff-top position. For Kate, however, it was the dictionary definition of ‘prospect’ that most inspired her:
Possibility of something happening soon, a chance or the likelihood that something will happen in the near future, especially something desirable
.

This was the definition she shared with all newcomers to the house, in the hope that they might believe in the possibility of a better future, for Prospect House was all about hope.

Kate tried to concentrate on the voice on the end of the phone while she prodded at the pile of paper with her pen, hoping it might topple into the bin and disappear for good. No such luck.

A workman’s drill stuttered to life in the old stable. She plugged her ear to try and block out its drone. The staff would have their own quarters in the converted buildings to the side of the property, across a courtyard; far enough away to give the girls their independence, but close enough to be on site in a matter of seconds. As yet, though, no staff had been hired. Kate wasn’t sure how to find exactly what she was looking for. It was one more thing waiting to be crossed off her ever growing list.

She turned her attention back to voice on the end of the phone.

‘Yes, I understand completely. I think we’ve complied one hundred per cent: fire doors, new escapes and so forth. All work was recommended and approved by the Cornish fire service… My certificate?’ Kate stared at the pile of papers; it had to be
hidden somewhere. ‘Yes, I have it right here!’ she lied. ‘I’ll pop a copy in the post immediately!’

She added it to her list and replaced the handset in its cradle.

‘I need some fresh air!’ Kate threw her hands in the air and shouted into the empty house.

It was one of the first glorious days of summer and Kate was relishing the novelty of living on the coast, bringing new adventures every day. The sun warmed her through the window as she dawdled in the post office, browsing the jars of homemade preserves. She wondered if it would be undiplomatic to ask who made them, so that she could go direct to the source and save a few bob. As far as possible, she wanted organic, homemade produce for every meal. It was all part of establishing Prospect House as completely distinct from her residents’ previous lives, in which Kate could almost guarantee that most of the food they ate came fast or shrink-wrapped. She had hated the plastic trays on which the prison food was served. An indentation for stew and another for custard meant that one slip and the courses would slop and merge together like the contents of a toddler’s pelican bib; it was disgusting.

‘You just bought the big house on the top.’

It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t answer, but instead stared at the young man who stood to her right, clutching his pot noodle and a packet of chocolate bourbons. She estimated him to be about thirty, with the high tan and weathered face of someone who had grown up and worked his whole life in the outdoors.

‘We’re not ’appy about your plans.’

This also did not merit a response, causing him to redden slightly under her silent scrutiny, but not enough to deter him from repeating his phrase.

‘I said we’re—’

‘Yes, yes, I heard you the first time. I am just trying to figure out two things before I answer you. Firstly, who is the “we” in question, and secondly, what do you or anyone else know about my plans?’

He shifted his weight onto his other foot. Kate noticed one of his legs was considerably shorter than the other, the deficit made up by an unwieldy built-up boot.

‘We is the whole village, all of Penmarin really.’

Her eyes widened. She placed her hand on the cameo brooch at her neck, feigning shock.

‘Is that right? The whole village? Goodness, I don’t think I have spoken to more than four people since I arrived and yet the
whole
village is unhappy with me? That’s quite an achievement.’

‘It’s not you personally; it’s what you are going to do up there, bringing all sorts of undesirables into this little place. Most of us have lived here our whole lives and there are kids and old people to think about…’

‘Where is it exactly that I am communally discussed?’

‘You what?’

Kate shifted her shopping basket on her arm and repeated her enquiry.

‘Where is it that everybody talks about me and my degenerate plans to corrupt your children, destroy your community and life as you know it?’

His nervous stutter told her all that she needed to know.

‘In… In the pub mainly…’ He looked at his feet. Had he divulged a secret?

‘Great! Well, you can tell the great “we” that I will be in the pub tonight at seven thirty, to discuss my plans and I’ll be happy to answer any questions that anyone might have. I’m Kate by the way.’

She held out her hand. He took it and smiled.

‘Tom, Tom Heath.’

‘Lovely to meet you, Tom. I’m sure I will see you later.’

With that she swept past him and the counter where the postmistress was listening and watching, mouth agape. Kate’s appetite for preserves had suddenly abated.

She marched the two miles home; the winding lane with its steep incline was no challenge for her determined stride, she was a woman on a mission. Despite her strong resolve, hot tears pricked her eyes. Why did everything have to be a bloody battle? The warm, salt-tinged breeze irritated rather than soothed. Kate cared little for the sprouting cow parsley and red campion as she kicked at the hedgerows, sending the heads scattering onto the scorched tarmac. Slamming the kitchen door behind her, she plonked her basket in the middle of the kitchen table and gave a guttural yell.

‘UUUrrgghhh!’

‘Why don’t you just swear? It is so much more satisfying,’ said the voice from the breakfast bar.

Kate laughed, but chose not to take up the suggestion.

‘I didn’t know you were back. How was Truro?’

‘Good, thanks, but stop changing the subject. It’s true you know, Kate, a good swear can be most therapeutic. Do you know that in all the years I’ve known you, I have never, ever heard you properly swear apart from the odd “bloody” and a couple of “shits”, which frankly don’t really count, and I honestly think that sometimes you would find it of great benefit. I love a good swear, especially in the car, and I can tell that right now is one of those times. Come on, Kate, repeat after me. Boll—’

‘I don’t think so.’ Kate raised her hand and cut her friend short.

‘I have never sworn habitually and I’m not going to start now in my forties!’

‘You are such a goody-goody.’

‘That’s me!’

‘Anyway, what’s up? Why the need for an almost-nearly swear?’

Kate looked at her friend sitting astride a high stool and sighed.

‘Oh, Natasha, I’ve had a pants day. People are coming out of the woodwork and demanding certificates and insurance policies and goodness knows what else before we can open properly and as if that isn’t enough, I’m afraid we’ve got a bit of a situation on our hands.’

‘Ooh, that sounds dramatic. Tell all!’

Natasha placed her paintbrush into its pot of water, swirling it to create the most vivid shade of blue. She bunched her voluminous skirt into her hand and gave Kate her full attention.

‘I ran into a young chap in the post office who told me that the locals are not happy about what we are doing up here.’

‘Oh my God! It’s out, isn’t it! The fact that we have been drinking Chablis and eating crisps while watching
Mamma Mia
into the early hours. Oh my God, the shame! I confess all; I have a weakness for Pierce Brosnan!’

‘This is serious, Natasha, and worse still, I have agreed to go and face the masses at the pub tonight for a bit of a question and answer session. I don’t know what I was thinking, I was just so incensed! I felt a lot braver then than I do now.’

‘I think it’s a great idea. We should be open and up front, not hide here as though we have a guilty secret. It will be okay once we have actually met the locals. They probably think we are a couple of lesbians living a life of debauchery all alone and thoroughly enjoying ourselves!’

‘Goodness, Natasha, not the whole lesbian thing again, please!’

They both laughed.

Half-past seven came round very quickly. Kate quietly closed the front door and felt a wave of anxiety. The next time she stepped through its frame she would either be accepted or alienated – quite a daunting thought.

The two sauntered along the lane in the dying warmth of the summer’s day. Kate had dressed with care in a pair of tailored jeans, a floral poplin shirt and the faintest smidge of make-up. The novelty of being able to wear jeans after two decades of Mark’s sartorial restrictions had not worn off; she doubted that it ever would. In her deck shoes and with a cotton jersey over her shoulders, she looked somewhere between a local and a visiting yachtie.

Natasha looked magnificent in a turquoise linen shift with an array of lapis lazuli at her throat and wrists. No understated dressing for her – Kate wouldn’t have expected anything different.

‘It’ll be all right you know, Kate. What’s the worst that they can do? Hound us out of town?’

Kate smiled weakly and thought that yes, that was exactly what they could do.

The Lobster Pot pub radiated light against the natural landscape, throwing out its shadowy beams across the tarmac car park and grass beyond. It was the same glow that drew teenage adventurers, with the lure of all that it held within, but for Kate Gavier it looked like the Admiral Benbow from
Treasure Island
, and tonight held as much menace.

The two women stepped through the door and were greeted by at least forty pairs of eyes and a curtain of silence that
descended with alarming speed. The place was packed to the rafters with the old and the young; denim-clad bottoms were balanced on stools and filled the shabby booths; women were perched on the knees of their menfolk. The air was thick with the sweat and alcohol-breath of the crowd. The windows had steamed up and the place pulsed with the anticipation of forty expectant souls whose tongues and wits were being lubricated by the local real ale.

Kate hesitated for a fraction of a second, loitering in the doorway. To flee or fight, that was her dilemma. A loud voice roused her from her stupor.

‘Ah! Here she is, our guest of honour!’

A large man in his mid fifties stepped forward from the crowd, a generous measure of whisky swirling in his hand. His mustard cords, checked shirt and floppy hair identified him as the wealthy restaurant owner from the harbour. He was a minor celebrity in these parts, with a stake in nearly all the local businesses, including the pub. His shiny yacht, which was permanently moored alongside the shabby fishing boats, made a bold statement.

Kate and Natasha had seen him from afar at least twice. He was a man for whom ageing was not only a problem but also a preoccupation. Tooth veneers and a regular root touch-up to keep the grey at bay both helped. Little, however, could be done to disguise his elderly hands, aged with liver spots and reminding Kate of prime pork sausages: meaty, bloated and growing more inept month on month. He dressed as he always had, paying no heed to his expanding waistline or the swell of his neck that strained beneath his collar. Kate and Natasha could see that two or three decades earlier he might have been attractive in a rather caddish, country gentleman type way. But not now, now he was past his prime. They had snickered,
knowing that to be similarly assessed would be devastating.