image came back to him of Hannah meeting him at the door of her Holloway flat with a soft kiss, bare feet, cheeks flushed with cooking, smelling of spice and garlic.
Then he knew what was different about Clare recently.
She seemed happy in her own skin, like Hannah used to be.
Will shut the door, and sat down on Jamie’s bed. He realized he wasn’t just unhappy that Hannah had forced him to move out of London.
He was just unhappy.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
That night Hannah put out the sitting-room fire in Tornley Hall, thinking about her conversation with Will. Was it the phone signal, or was he drunk? Without her around, Matt and the studio boys had probably talked him into four or five pints.
Well, good for them. Matt had only ever known Grown-up Will. Grown-up Will, who was responsible for other people’s careers and mortgages. He’d never met Childish Will. He’d be out of a job in a month, if he did.
It didn’t matter. Will would be home tomorrow.
As Hannah stood up, she spotted the vagrant’s red blanket, still lying in the corner by the window. Wrinkling her nose, she picked it up with the poker to throw it out the back door.
The corner of a green leather-bound book appeared underneath it.
What was that?
Hannah dropped the blanket and knelt down. The rest of the book was stuck in a narrow gap under the lowest bookshelf.
She pulled it out. ‘Photographs,’ it said on the front in gold letters.
This was interesting.
Behind it, she saw the edge of another green album. She dragged it out. There was a third behind that one.
Intrigued, Hannah kept pulling. Four, five . . . She continued until there were seven photograph albums lying on the wooden floor. This was exciting. Three of the covers were more battered than the others and had a faint white coating, as if they’d been stored somewhere damp. Lots of pages were stuck together. She opened the first clean album. The spine was stiff and came apart with a creak. Black-and-white photos appeared on the page. They were inserted into little cardboard frames, with soft, off-white tissue nestled between each page.
Hannah flicked, fascinated. This page showed Tornley Hall!
What were these: the Horseborrow family photographs?
She found more photographs of people in the garden and around the house, at the beach and on the lanes. This was amazing. If Brian was right, and the Horseborrows had been the only residents of Tornley Hall since it was built in 1902, these photographs would provide an invaluable history of the house.
With the fire now dead, the temperature plummeted. Hannah grabbed three of the better albums, locked up the inner doors and ran to her freezing bedroom.
When she’d warmed up under the duvet, she examined them in more detail. The first collection appeared to be from the 1920s. Tornley Hall looked much grander than it did today. The front lawn was manicured, with elegant paths and rosebeds, and a posh car in the driveway. There were two Irish wolfhounds in a few of the photos. One image was taken at the front of the house. In it, a nipped-mouth elderly woman in a hat and muffler sat in a bath chair. Behind her was a girl with the vacant look of a bored servant. Could the woman be Olive and Peter’s mother, Mrs Horseborrow, the original owner of the house? Hannah peered closer. The front door was ajar.
Was that . . . was that . . . ?
It
was
. In the shadows was the Oriental tapestry that had hung here till last week.
She sat back. This was incredible. Will had to see this.
In the second album the photos were from a little later, perhaps the 1940s, and appeared to have been taken inside the original walled garden. One set was of a party. Cheerful young men wore slicked-back hair and baggy wool trousers; the women were dressed in tea-dresses, their hair set in waves. Some played croquet. All were smiling for the camera. The same two faces appeared on every page: a woman with a pleasant, round face and brown plaits, tied Austrian-style on
Then he knew what was different about Clare recently.
She seemed happy in her own skin, like Hannah used to be.
Will shut the door, and sat down on Jamie’s bed. He realized he wasn’t just unhappy that Hannah had forced him to move out of London.
He was just unhappy.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
That night Hannah put out the sitting-room fire in Tornley Hall, thinking about her conversation with Will. Was it the phone signal, or was he drunk? Without her around, Matt and the studio boys had probably talked him into four or five pints.
Well, good for them. Matt had only ever known Grown-up Will. Grown-up Will, who was responsible for other people’s careers and mortgages. He’d never met Childish Will. He’d be out of a job in a month, if he did.
It didn’t matter. Will would be home tomorrow.
As Hannah stood up, she spotted the vagrant’s red blanket, still lying in the corner by the window. Wrinkling her nose, she picked it up with the poker to throw it out the back door.
The corner of a green leather-bound book appeared underneath it.
What was that?
Hannah dropped the blanket and knelt down. The rest of the book was stuck in a narrow gap under the lowest bookshelf.
She pulled it out. ‘Photographs,’ it said on the front in gold letters.
This was interesting.
Behind it, she saw the edge of another green album. She dragged it out. There was a third behind that one.
Intrigued, Hannah kept pulling. Four, five . . . She continued until there were seven photograph albums lying on the wooden floor. This was exciting. Three of the covers were more battered than the others and had a faint white coating, as if they’d been stored somewhere damp. Lots of pages were stuck together. She opened the first clean album. The spine was stiff and came apart with a creak. Black-and-white photos appeared on the page. They were inserted into little cardboard frames, with soft, off-white tissue nestled between each page.
Hannah flicked, fascinated. This page showed Tornley Hall!
What were these: the Horseborrow family photographs?
She found more photographs of people in the garden and around the house, at the beach and on the lanes. This was amazing. If Brian was right, and the Horseborrows had been the only residents of Tornley Hall since it was built in 1902, these photographs would provide an invaluable history of the house.
With the fire now dead, the temperature plummeted. Hannah grabbed three of the better albums, locked up the inner doors and ran to her freezing bedroom.
When she’d warmed up under the duvet, she examined them in more detail. The first collection appeared to be from the 1920s. Tornley Hall looked much grander than it did today. The front lawn was manicured, with elegant paths and rosebeds, and a posh car in the driveway. There were two Irish wolfhounds in a few of the photos. One image was taken at the front of the house. In it, a nipped-mouth elderly woman in a hat and muffler sat in a bath chair. Behind her was a girl with the vacant look of a bored servant. Could the woman be Olive and Peter’s mother, Mrs Horseborrow, the original owner of the house? Hannah peered closer. The front door was ajar.
Was that . . . was that . . . ?
It
was
. In the shadows was the Oriental tapestry that had hung here till last week.
She sat back. This was incredible. Will had to see this.
In the second album the photos were from a little later, perhaps the 1940s, and appeared to have been taken inside the original walled garden. One set was of a party. Cheerful young men wore slicked-back hair and baggy wool trousers; the women were dressed in tea-dresses, their hair set in waves. Some played croquet. All were smiling for the camera. The same two faces appeared on every page: a woman with a pleasant, round face and brown plaits, tied Austrian-style on
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