Starting Over Page 2

  Before parting with the change, Julie – said the other name pin – and Mrs Crowther closed in adroitly on the subject of Tess. ‘And do you work, duck? An illustrator! An artist, really, then? Never known an illustrator, have you, Julie? What do you illustrate?’

  Tess shuffled. ‘Folk tales, animals and dragons. Kids’ stuff, whimsy.’

  ‘Books ’n’ that, then?’

  ‘And cards.’ Looking over at the racked cellophaned greeting cards, Tess recognised some of Crowther’s stock. She pointed quickly. ‘That’s one of mine.’ Little wolves dressed in breeches and aproned frocks, with toothy grins and feathered ears. The card company was a useful source of income, providing bits and pieces between commissions of book work obtained by Kitty, her agent. The wolves had recently been reproduced on mugs as well, another fee.

  Olly had wanted her to design something funky, had urged her to try and break into CD covers, implying that her chosen market must be of a lesser quality. CD covers came under design, not illustration; there were few openings and little money in it – but trust Olly to ignore little things like that.

  Mrs Crowther gaped. ‘Get away!’

  ‘Really? You drew that? Oh, sign one for me!’ Julie, flicking back her long blonde bunches, snatched up a birthday card and stripped away the wrapping. ‘Where’s a pen? You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘’Course not.’ Tess wiped her palms on her jeans, scribbled Best wishes, Tess Riddell self-consciously on the front, alongside the T inside the little star that she added discreetly to her illustrations.

  She was out of practice at being sociable, felt worn out by such beady interest. But, as supposed, Mrs Crowther could pinpoint the likely giver of gifts. ‘That’ll be Lucasta Meredith at Pennybun Cottage, I’ll bet! That’s her style.’

  ‘Where’s Pennybun?’

  Mrs Crowther snorted with amusement. ‘Next door to you!’

  ‘I didn’t know there was anything but trees next door to me –’ She scurried aside as Mrs Crowther rushed to the door to help drag in a tandem buggy, disregarding Tess instantly. ‘Hello Angel! Hello Toby, hello baby Jenna!’

  The little boy in the front seat of the buggy looked up at Tess. ‘My daddy’s in prison.’

  His mother corrected him gently. ‘Preston.’

  Tess smiled politely and made for the door.

  Breaking off simultaneous conversations with the pretty mother and sturdy son, Mrs Crowther called after her, ‘Fifty steps past your gate, my duck, you’ll see old Pennybun Cottage.’

  As the door swung behind her, she heard, ‘Is that the new one from Honeybun?’ She grinned. Looked across at the garage; scowled.

  Last night, Jos had dropped in an invoice for the tow into the village. Jos was nice, she couldn’t stay wary with him for more than the two minutes it took him to pull out a chair and invite himself for coffee. The biker gear disguised a real sweetheart.

  Must pay, next stop.

  That abrupt, sarcastic man. Yuk. She could always write a cheque, pop it through the door when they were shut? Yes, she’d do that.

  ‘No, you won’t!’ she muttered crossly to herself. ‘He doesn’t worry you! You can deal with annoying gits, you’re not a wimp.’

  Crossing the forecourt, she took a good look at her Freelander, still under the tarpaulin, and almost bowled into Ratty, right by the door. Damn, the surly pirate. She’d hoped to deal with one of the others.

  She whisked out her credit card. ‘I’ve come to pay my bill.’

  ‘Great.’ He glanced up from the falling-apart manual in his oily hands. ‘So your insurance company insisted on the repair being done by Land Rover? They’re picking it up later.’ His voice was clipped, accentless.

  She flushed. ‘You were right about that.’

  He grinned. He looked more relaxed today. ‘They’ll do a good job. And if your policy allows for a courtesy car … well, I haven’t got one. But there was no chassis damage and the engine still runs. It’s just cosmetic stuff, bolting on the new panels and lights – looks worse than it is. Feeling OK, now?’

  She pushed back her hair that was blowing out of its clasp. Flushed, self-conscious under his intent gaze. ‘A bit stiff. Nothing to worry about.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘Thanks for asking. And for delivering my stuff.’

  ‘No prob.’ He returned to his reading.

  He gave her time to march away across the forecourt.

  Then, ‘She paid,’ Ratty told Pete’s legs. ‘Funny woman.’ He turned a page that was no longer attached to the manual. ‘Amazing colouring, hasn’t she? When her hair was wet it looked nothing special. But it’s extraordinary – kind of amber.’

  ‘Who?’ Pete’s hollow voice floated up through the engine compartment and out of the open bonnet of an MG Midget.

  ‘The funny woman from Honeybun who pranged the wrecker.’ Not auburn, not blonde, somewhere between. Long, long hair swung carelessly in a thick ponytail. Turquoise eyes, like in a romantic novel. Alive, those eyes, in a face bearing the slightest sprinkling of freckles. Unusual, she was. A pair of studs in one ear, a pair of big hoops in the other, gold bands, some patterned, some plain, all without stones, on every long, upturned finger but not the thumbs.

  ‘But “funny”?’

  A pause. ‘Interesting.’

  Pennybun Cottage proved to be snuggled into the trees only a few yards from the end of Tess’s garden. A mirror image of Honeybun Cottage in a teeming garden of big white daisies, golden rod, the last hollyhocks taller than herself, papery old laburnum pods rustling as she wandered to the door, obligatory deepest red rose around the doorway ...

  ‘Good morning, dear! You’re the new one –’

  ‘– from Honeybun,’ she agreed. Before she’d lifted her hand to the door, before she’d completely made up her mind to knock, even, the door was opening and Lucasta Meredith was waving her in like an old friend. A silvery chignon complemented a dress patterned in eight shades of blue, a stick propping up a walk that had become a jerky dance. Lucasta scarcely looked capable of walking round to Honeybun with her little gifts.

  Tess was ushered into a parlour of hanging plants, glass and ivory ornaments, with a floral cottage suite nestled in the middle.

  ‘Tea? Coffee? Sometimes you younger ones prefer ...?’ Lucasta swung open a spindly-legged black japanned cabinet, exhibiting a fine selection of bottled lagers and alcopops.

  Tess grinned to see club-trendy booze where she’d expect sherry. ‘Tea’s fine.’ She flicked a glance at her watch. She hadn’t meant to get involved in a tea ceremony. If she’d thought at all, it was that she’d offer quick thanks for the doorstep gifts and go home.

  To do what? Wander round in circles achieving very little? Maybe think about a card illustration but not begin it? She gazed at the dull sheen elegance of a Liberty pewter tea set complete with raffia handles. She must start work. Over the past year she’d lost the habit.

  Along with the tea in tiny cups of eggshell china, Lucasta produced crudités and cheese dip, chips of carrot, celery and red pepper. One old lady who’d broken away from petticoat tails, evidently.

  And she admitted happily to being the doorstep-gift giver. ‘Just to make you welcome, dear. Are you meeting people?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I said to Miles that the young lady had moved into Honeybun. Do try the peppers, I grew them, Miles watered them for me. Or do you prefer biscuits? I always worry that they clog the heart.’

  Tess let Lucasta shoulder the bulk of the conversational burden as she munched and sipped, Lucasta lifting the pot in both knobbly knuckled hands, wincing, to refill the dinky cups. ‘Are you feeling better? And is your vehicle mended now?’

  Oh God. A nosy neighbour.

  She fidgeted. She didn’t need to be overseen, explanations expected, she shouldn’t have come. How long before she could slink away? ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Miles said, when I asked if he’d met you, he said your motor needed to go for repair.’ From Lucasta’s twi
nkle, it seemed likely that she knew how the Freelander had come to grief.

  ‘Miles?’

  ‘Miles Rattenbury. It’s so nice, don’t you think, people restoring those old cars? Come from all over to MAR Motors so Miles can sort their precious MGAs or Cadillacs.’

  Ah. The old American cars on the forecourt, the ageing Jaguar. ‘So he specialises in old cars?’

  ‘Old cars, fast cars, funny cars. It’s where the money is, Miles says. Fascinated by anything with an engine when he was young, always hanging round Carlysle’s place to have a go with the tractor or mess around with someone’s car.’ Lucasta waved a matchstick of carrot. ‘Making a complete nuisance of himself whenever he could get into the paddock at Silverstone.

  ‘His parents, Lester and Elisabeth, they would’ve liked him to follow Lester into law, perhaps, or accountancy. But no.’ She tipped out the final few bronze drops from the teapot.

  ‘And Miles did a year of an accountancy course but he hated it, dear. Hated it. Used to come home and be simply miserable when it was time to go back. So one day, he didn’t.’

  Crunching celery, Tess considered. Miles Rattenbury; Ratty, sarcastic grumpy guts. But her impressions were shifting slightly. Strip away the tattoos, the sleeve-discarded T-shirts and the oil stains and the well-spoken, educated son of a solicitor began to come into focus.

  The anniversary clock on the china cabinet rang the hour softly. Interrupting herself, Lucasta reached for an ivory box and took out a tablet. ‘Mustn’t forget.’ The last draught from her tiny cup. ‘Stupid thing. Getting old.’

  Before she’d realised she was going to, Tess said, ‘I had to take tablets for ages ...’ An uncontrolled bleed, that’s what the hospital had called it, that terrifying, consciousness-sapping deluge of blood. She waited for a stream of questions but Lucasta just tutted sympathetically.

  ‘Horrible for you.’ A frail-boned hand bestowed a momentary, butterfly touch. Then Lucasta launched into a dry monologue about the trials of growing old. ‘It’s such a bore! I was quite lively, in my day, but I need to write everything down, nowadays.’ She flipped open a floral-covered pad of lists and notes in gorgeous script. ‘I don’t know where I’d be without my notebook. Look here, “put chicken in oven by 10.30 a.m.”. How silly can you get?’ More pages. ‘And here, debating whether to move to sheltered accommodation.’ A sudden creaking laugh over a page split into ‘plus’ and ‘minus’ columns.

  Tess looked, waiting politely for when she could make her excuses.

  Lucasta smiled, skin as soft as rose petals, eyes faded to nearly grey, smiled gently. ‘I’ve rattled on! I won’t keep you.’

  On her feet like a dog hearing its lead clinking, Tess paused at the front door. In the interests of graciousness, she ought to offer something in return for the little gifts. ‘You know where I am if you need anything.’

  Lucasta creaked another laugh, tapping her stick. ‘Miles keeps an eye, though I’ve told him there’s no obligation. I’m used to looking after myself, my husband and I kept separate establishments.’

  Wrong-footed, Tess managed only, ‘Really?’

  Grey-blue eyes gazed across the garden. ‘It’s what we did in those days. Live apart, remain married. Pointless. Wasting our lives.’ Another touch of the fragile hand. ‘At least there’s Miles.’

  Tess escaped, wondering what Miles Rattenbury had to do with anything.

  And then, as she walked the few yards home, there he was, black curls swinging across his forehead, turning into the lane. A raised hand, perfunctory. She returned the smallest possible wave and bobbed through her own gate.

  Workroom. To kid herself that she was doing some work she opened two new files, side by side, on her Mac. The first headed Every Day, the second Overall. Under Every Day she began a list, just like Lucasta’s: work, correspondence, walk, shopping, read.

  Moving to Overall she typed: be positive, stop looking back, relax, phone home sometimes, go out, give in to the Curse when you have to, don’t eat sugar, don’t buy a television, get on with your life.

  Back to Every Day: eat sensibly.

  A burst of energy, another new file, To Do. A quick glance around the workroom. Roughs for book jacket, ideas for two new wolf drawings.

  Back to Overall, and finance. Royalty cheques had come in whilst she’d been ill. Funds were accumulating. Grandmother leaving her capital had helped start the ball rolling; James’s dealings had improved her position. And, of course, she was successful. She sometimes forgot that.

  Under all three headings she added, SURVIVE WITHOUT OLLY!

  With the lists stuck up on the wall, she got down, finally, to sorting the boxes, pads, portfolios and spilling folders.

  At bedtime she wrote begun by roughs, and ticked phone home.

  ‘Did you realise ...?’

  Tess woke from her dreaming study of the rippling countryside’s geometric browns and late dusty yellows and greens. Shook her head to clear the image of the baby that never was, that had never focused or grasped puffs of air with starfish hands. Never cried. Never fed. Never been a warm weight in her arms.

  The baby that had quit her body and, minuscule and unformed as it had been, left an awful, gaping hollow in its place.

  The man, striding up the hill in waxed jacket and green gumboots, glared from under a mop of brown floppy hair. Tess rose, warily. He didn’t seem too pleased to see her.

  ‘You’ve left the footpath.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorr––’

  ‘I’ll have to ask you to leave. My father thinks all walkers are hell-bent on ignorant destruction.’

  She flushed. The morning’s sketches had eaten the day until she’d dashed out to grab a last slice of autumn daylight. She’d so enjoyed the walk, the wind whisking her spirits, that she’d forgotten that large bits of countryside belonged to people.

  Embarrassed, she turned to battle through the long grass up the hill. Then, realising the entrance into the copse lay to the right, changed direction. Or did it? She changed again. Halted.

  Then the man was at her side, brown eyes kinder. ‘I’ve startled you. But we’ve had such a packet of trouble recently, my father gets so infuriated! We’ve had travellers on the land, crops spoilt, place turned into a furniture dump.’

  He had an attractive smile. Tentatively, smoothing stray hanks of hair back behind her ears, Tess tried out her own smile in response. ‘I didn’t mean to trespass.’ Watched, with satisfaction, his eyes become interested. Nice eyes, too.

  He seemed now to be recovering his manners. ‘Let me walk you a little way.’ He led her towards an opening that Tess now recognised quite plainly as the way home. ‘Are you visiting the village? Oh, you’re the new one from Honeybun!’

  By the time they’d stumped back along the uneven footpath, pace slowing as conversation quickened, and he’d delivered her to the edge of the village, she was laughing and chatting as if they were old friends. She’d learnt that his family, the Carlysles, owned the estate, and that he, Simeon, helped with the management, ‘mainly by keeping out of everyone’s way’. He let his arm brush against hers as they walked, and made shameless use of his terrific smile.

  And, somehow, she found herself agreeing to let him take her to the bonfire night on the estate later in the week. ‘All the village’ll be there, beer and hot dogs, great night.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Must go! Pick you up at six on the fifth?’

  Marching up Port Road and Cross Street, Tess assessed Simeon Carlysle. Pleasantly friendly compared to Miles Rattenbury, he’d liked her, had been aware of her body, she’d caught him peeking. When she’d glanced back as she walked away, he’d been staring after her. Balm to her flattened ego.

  He seemed harmless. Having a Seriously Nice Man interested in her would cheer her up a bit.

  Absorbed in these thoughts, she stopped abruptly when she reached the bronze stone and slate roof of the village pub, The Three Fishes. She’d managed to turn the wrong way up Main Road.

  But the pu
b looked inviting. Tubs of ivy, lights shining into the dusk, the sound of a guitar. In you go, then. Mmmm ... is it a good idea? Yes, no one’s going to bite you!

  Initially, the buzz of after-work drinkers seemed welcoming enough. Someone was playing the guitar and singing a song that she’d heard Sting sing. But, as she stepped resolutely into the front-room atmosphere, she saw that it was Ratty, cradling the guitar, perched on a stool with his back to the bar. When he saw her, he stopped singing. The buzz halted as sharply.

  Every head turned. It’s a bad idea.

  She froze. Smile! Order a drink, nod at the men from the garage. The sudden silence had not been – could not be – planned to make her feel like an intruder.

  But ... Spinning suddenly, she ducked her head and blundered back through the door, hands clammy, heart bumping. She wasn’t ready, yet.

  Chapter Three

  ‘You’re not having a good day, are you?’ Tess studied the house spider as it floated, despairing legs spread, in her bleach-laced floor-washing water. ‘Drowning and poisoned. I wonder which will kill you?’

  ‘D’you generally talk to buckets?’

  Tess jumped. The young mum she’d seen in the shop with the buggy was hovering by the open door, enquiring eyes smiling.

  Carefully, Tess scooped up the casualty. ‘I’m counselling a dying spider.’

  The intruder grinned like a pixie. ‘Kind of you. A big dog hasn’t come in here, has he? Springer?’ She dangled an empty collar.

  Tess wiped damp hands. ‘Don’t think so.’

  Rapid remarks carried the visitor into the room. ‘We haven’t met properly. You know Pete Sissins, from Ratty’s garage? We’re married, I’m Angel. Stupid name, isn’t it – Mrs Sissins. Missississins. Mustn’t be long, I’ve parked the children at your gate.’ A backward step, a peep to check. ‘It’s Ratty’s wretched dog, anyway, whenever he’s at an auction good old Angel gets stupid dog McLaren to mind, McLaren the escape artist. As if I haven’t got enough with two tiny kids!’