a mutual appreciation for hard graft,
and the result was that work on the premises had galloped forward. This weekend
William and Luke would have a final blitz, and then an electrician, plumber,
plasterer and carpenter would start work on Monday. With all the paperwork
already in place and the furniture and equipment set to deliver in three weeks,
Luke was aiming for an opening in early September.
I found the pair in what would be the kitchen, laying the
last of the new floorboards. I watched them for a moment, grey hair and black
curls side by side, Luke focused intently on hammering in a nail, William
looking on approvingly. The sight gave me a twinge of sadness, and I wondered
whether Luke felt the same – it had been so long since he had a father figure
in his life.
I waited until the nail was in before saying, ‘Morning, boys.’
Luke looked up at once, smiled, said, ‘Hey, don’t worry, I
am ready,’ and then jumped up and began dusting down his jeans.
‘Good morning… Scarlett,’ said William. He still had to
check himself to remember to call me that, after eighteen years of Miss Scarlett.
‘How’s it coming?’
‘Good. Very good. The core work’s all but done, thanks to
Luke. From here on it’s just prettying up. You know, you should get your mum to
advise on that, Scarlett. She’s done a wonderful job at Hollythwaite. Classic
but modern, she calls it. Got me to sell off a load of fusty old furniture and
paintings – which fetched a pretty penny, I can tell you – and then marched me
around auctions and art galleries and furniture design shops. Like I know a
thing about all that!’
He spoke with such affection that it was clear he’d grown
very fond of the woman he’d once called ma’am.
Luke had come over to me and taken my hand. I looked up at
him. He had a smear of dust on his cheek and I reached up and brushed it off.
‘You ready?’
He nodded. ‘You okay if I get off now, William?’
‘Happy as a pig in mud,’ said the old man, saluting us with
Luke’s hammer.
We walked hand in hand away from the cafe towards the
village square. The sky was overcast today, daubed in a deep grey that warned
of rain to come, and a cool sea wind made me shiver through my cardie. Usually,
Luke would have noticed and pulled me close to warm me up, but for now he was
lost in thought.
When we reached my car I took from the passenger seat two
simple posies of pink roses and handed them to Luke.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘They’re perfect.’
He took my hand again and we walked on, across the wet grass
of the village square, across the little deserted lane that ran alongside the
church of St Mary’s, and through the old wooden gate into the graveyard.
I’d come here several times since my return to Twycombe. I
took Chester sometimes to visit his late owner, Bert. But most often I came
alone and sat on the bench by the graves of Peter and Alice Jones, my
grandparents. Last time, the reverend of the church had spotted me there and
brought me out a cup of tea. He’d been so kind, patting my hand and asking me
gently how I was. I’d felt guilty for his sympathy, that he thought I was still
struggling with Sienna’s death. And then I’d felt angry all over again with my
lying, treacherous, perfectly alive and perfectly happy sister.
Today wasn’t a day for anger, though.
We didn’t follow my usual path around to the back of the
church. We stopped in the long shadow cast by the tower, from which a stained-glass
angel watched over us sadly. In the Cavendish family plot two headstones stood
out as gleaming white, the inscriptions black and stark against the granite.
The words ‘beloved mother’ and ‘beloved father’ jumped out at me, as did the
dates on each: first of July – four years ago today.
Luke took the roses from me and crouched down and carefully
laid a posy against each headstone. Then he straightened up and took my hand
once more, and we stood together in silence, gazing down
and the result was that work on the premises had galloped forward. This weekend
William and Luke would have a final blitz, and then an electrician, plumber,
plasterer and carpenter would start work on Monday. With all the paperwork
already in place and the furniture and equipment set to deliver in three weeks,
Luke was aiming for an opening in early September.
I found the pair in what would be the kitchen, laying the
last of the new floorboards. I watched them for a moment, grey hair and black
curls side by side, Luke focused intently on hammering in a nail, William
looking on approvingly. The sight gave me a twinge of sadness, and I wondered
whether Luke felt the same – it had been so long since he had a father figure
in his life.
I waited until the nail was in before saying, ‘Morning, boys.’
Luke looked up at once, smiled, said, ‘Hey, don’t worry, I
am ready,’ and then jumped up and began dusting down his jeans.
‘Good morning… Scarlett,’ said William. He still had to
check himself to remember to call me that, after eighteen years of Miss Scarlett.
‘How’s it coming?’
‘Good. Very good. The core work’s all but done, thanks to
Luke. From here on it’s just prettying up. You know, you should get your mum to
advise on that, Scarlett. She’s done a wonderful job at Hollythwaite. Classic
but modern, she calls it. Got me to sell off a load of fusty old furniture and
paintings – which fetched a pretty penny, I can tell you – and then marched me
around auctions and art galleries and furniture design shops. Like I know a
thing about all that!’
He spoke with such affection that it was clear he’d grown
very fond of the woman he’d once called ma’am.
Luke had come over to me and taken my hand. I looked up at
him. He had a smear of dust on his cheek and I reached up and brushed it off.
‘You ready?’
He nodded. ‘You okay if I get off now, William?’
‘Happy as a pig in mud,’ said the old man, saluting us with
Luke’s hammer.
We walked hand in hand away from the cafe towards the
village square. The sky was overcast today, daubed in a deep grey that warned
of rain to come, and a cool sea wind made me shiver through my cardie. Usually,
Luke would have noticed and pulled me close to warm me up, but for now he was
lost in thought.
When we reached my car I took from the passenger seat two
simple posies of pink roses and handed them to Luke.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘They’re perfect.’
He took my hand again and we walked on, across the wet grass
of the village square, across the little deserted lane that ran alongside the
church of St Mary’s, and through the old wooden gate into the graveyard.
I’d come here several times since my return to Twycombe. I
took Chester sometimes to visit his late owner, Bert. But most often I came
alone and sat on the bench by the graves of Peter and Alice Jones, my
grandparents. Last time, the reverend of the church had spotted me there and
brought me out a cup of tea. He’d been so kind, patting my hand and asking me
gently how I was. I’d felt guilty for his sympathy, that he thought I was still
struggling with Sienna’s death. And then I’d felt angry all over again with my
lying, treacherous, perfectly alive and perfectly happy sister.
Today wasn’t a day for anger, though.
We didn’t follow my usual path around to the back of the
church. We stopped in the long shadow cast by the tower, from which a stained-glass
angel watched over us sadly. In the Cavendish family plot two headstones stood
out as gleaming white, the inscriptions black and stark against the granite.
The words ‘beloved mother’ and ‘beloved father’ jumped out at me, as did the
dates on each: first of July – four years ago today.
Luke took the roses from me and crouched down and carefully
laid a posy against each headstone. Then he straightened up and took my hand
once more, and we stood together in silence, gazing down
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