Six
Early on Wednesday morning, Clare woke without Captain Hilts’ help. Outside her bedroom door, she discovered Stop-it curled up, his muzzle cradled beneath a front paw. She leaned down and scratched his neck, then crossed to the bathroom. Inside, there was a new shower curtain – a present from Trish – patterned with cheerful yellow sunflowers. She pulled it back. The shower was now set a couple of inches higher thanks to Roger and a can of WD40. The shower head gleamed, as Anna had taken it away and soaked it in descaler. Her friend had returned it together with a Wif-Fi hub and a prepaid contract for six months as a ‘welcome back’ present. It was a thoughtful gesture, but she wouldn’t need it nearly that long. She thought briefly about where she should be right now: exploring the Sistine Chapel.
She trotted downstairs, the dog following, and prepared her breakfast, toasting three slices of bread. She wanted two for herself. In the farmyard, Hilts announced Clare’s approach like a herald trumpeting the arrival of the king. The rescue hens clucked, fluttered their wings and darted obediently to the patch the cockerel indicated. All were a golden-brown colour and, to Clare, impossible to tell apart, so she had named them all Vera after Vera Lynn.
Clare scattered a few vegetable peelings. Hilts ran forwards scavenging in the dirt. She stalked around the rooster and tipped the rest of the peelings directly in front of the hens. Hilts dashed over, crowed at Clare and flapped his wings, keeping the hens behind him. Thinking the girls weren’t very empowered, dancing to the rooster’s tune, Clare wagged a finger at the captain. ‘Behave!’ she scolded. ‘You’re as bad as Richard.’
She ground her teeth together. Just thinking about Richard made her hackles rise. Yesterday, she had sent him an email so he couldn’t wriggle off the hook over Ivy and Fred’s lease extensions. She wrinkled her nose. Something about the way Richard had so readily agreed on Saturday worried her. It wasn’t logical. Either he’d lied and wouldn’t do it, or there was a hidden reason for his acceptance. But she couldn’t think of one. She couldn’t dwell on that now. She must focus on prepping the house to go on the market.
It was sunny, so she decided to start outside. She knew she would have to get into the orchard, the grass probably needed mowing, but she couldn’t face that yet.
Clare slathered sunscreen on her exposed limbs, collected secateurs and a flexi-plastic tub with one handle missing – thank you Stop-it – and surveyed the garden properly.
The lawn resembled the rougher edges of a golf course, with mounds of dirt beside holes dug by the dog pursuing tantalizing smells. There was a border where a rose bush, peonies and lupins competed for space with nettles, docks and buttercups. The telltale heart-shaped leaves of bindweed curled around the struggling plants. According to the estate agents, this bull terrier playpen needed transforming into what they referred to as ‘a stunning mature garden.’
Dragging her bucket behind her, she advanced on the solitary rose bush. Unlike Richard’s perfectly formed tea roses, this was an old-fashioned English variety, and getting closer, she could smell its perfume. She cupped a bloom in her hands, inhaling the scent. The flower crumpled, petals tumbling to the ground like confetti – just like her adventure seemed to be unfurling. She was clinging on to the lifeline of an early sale; if she could exchange by the end of August, she might still make it to that hot air balloon ride above Cappadocia in central Turkey.
She unwound the constricting bindweed. Behind her she heard Stop-it’s snuffles, ignored him and snipped at the dead roses, letting them fall in a pile by her feet. Finished, she reached for the tub. It wasn’t there. She spun around. Her bucket was ten feet behind her, the remaining handle secured in the dog’s jaws. ‘Stop-it!’
He replied with a low-throated encouraging growl, his tail wagging furiously.
‘Drop.’
He cocked his head to one side, his eyes challenging her. She didn’t have time to play, so turned her back on him, trying to ignore the sound of ripping plastic as she returned to her task. Something butted into the back of her knees. She looked down at her trug, now without handles. She grasped at his collar, but her hand closed on air as the dog darted away.
‘This looks like a good game.’
Recognizing Anna’s voice, Clare stood, stretching her arms over her head. Anna rearranged her hair clasp. ‘He does love to play, doesn’t he?’
‘I don’t have time to play, and he’s got boxes full of toys.’
‘He’s bored! He can’t throw his own ball.’
‘Fancy a cup of tea?’ Clare offered. ‘I could use a break.’
‘No thanks. You’re reminding me how much there is to do in my own garden.’ Anna leaned her elbows on the fence. ‘I just called around to say congratulations.’
‘What for?’ asked Clare.
‘I’ve just come from Prosecco and Prose. Ivy was there.’
‘There’s nothing to congratulate me about Ivy being in there . That’s where she delivers pastoral care.’
Her friend smiled. ‘She’s had a letter from Richard’s lawyers. Fred has had one too. He’s offering to extend their leases at a fixed rent, for – wait for it – five years.’
Clare straightened her back. There was something bothering her. She still couldn’t work out Richard’s motive and didn’t think he did anything unless it feathered his own nest.
‘Oh, I shouldn’t think me prodding him made any difference,’ she said.
‘You think that do you?’
Clare waved a hand dismissively. ‘He’d probably already decided to do it. It makes sense. They’re good tenants. You didn’t say anything linking the lease extensions to me, did you?’
‘No, but—’
‘Good.’
Anna shook her head. ‘Why won’t you take the glory? This is a terrific result.’
‘And that’s all that matters. Let’s not brag. We don’t want to give Richard any excuse to change his mind. Let him take the credit for his generosity.’
Anna gave her a withering look. ‘We are talking about the same landlord, aren’t we? The one who’s trying to jack up Rose’s rent?’
That was what was bothering Clare. Extending those leases would fix the rent, albeit at a higher rate, for five years – an odd move for a man who seemed keen to piggyback on Rose’s efforts. Unless it really was because Clare had asked. Had he made so much money from her mother that his conscience was telling him to give a bit back? Maybe he did have a better side.