Chapter Eighteen #2
I’m still working on selling the land. There’s no two ways about it: the manor itself will have to be torn down.
Now that everything is cleared out, the decay is even clearer to see; frankly, I’m surprised the floors never fell in on us.
I’ve been speaking to Gerrish to see if he can use it for farmland, but he seems to think it’s too large an area to take a risk on.
What with all the new foreign goods driving down costs, the farming community has learned the value of being cautious, one eye always on the purse-strings.
However, he’s tipped me off to a possible alternative: apparently I should try the War Office.
Of course, they already own a great deal of land on the Plain – not to mention that aerodrome they built over by Stonehenge – but word on the grapevine is that they’re looking to acquire even more.
Gerrish has given me an address to write to, so let’s see if that gets me anywhere.
Toward the end of May, I receive a letter from Arabella. She wants to talk, she says. I have half a mind to turn her away, but I still have unsettled business with her, so I extend an invitation.
Since the Allens left, I’m managing the household alone. This isn’t too much trouble, as I only keep two or three rooms in use – in fact, I’m glad that I can finally eat food with some flavour in it once more. I hope Nora’s poor bed-and-breakfast guests know what they’re in for!
On the afternoon that Arabella’s due to visit, I prepare the tea things and lay them out on the kitchen table for us to have there.
I’ve found Nora’s recipe for those yellow biscuits Arabella always liked and had a go at making them, even chopping them up small as Nora used to – although I suppose Arabella is no longer so afraid of choking on her food.
At three o’clock on the dot, Arabella raps at the front door. I wonder if she’s been waiting outside for the hour to arrive, perhaps looking up at the face of the house and running through what she wants to say to me.
Not bothering to go to the trouble of unlocking the front door, I open the back and stick my head out. ‘Round here!’
A few seconds later, Arabella appears around the corner.
I don’t know how to describe what’s different about her, apart from to say that she looks somehow smaller than life.
Her shoulders have a worried stoop to them, and she walks with her arms crossed protectively over her chest, as if cringing from the sunlight.
When she looks up at me, I see dark circles under her eyes.
She’s never been one to look like the prime of health, but there’s a frailty that’s more pronounced even for her.
I feel a pang of compassion, but it’s mixed together with a sick delight.
We go into the kitchen and I take the kettle off the stove, fill the pot to brew.
Arabella examines each of the chairs before selecting one to sit in. I suppose she’s not accustomed to using this room, perhaps has only been inside it a handful of times in her life. ‘Where are the Allens?’ she asks.
‘Somerset.’ I take the seat at a right-angle to her, so we don’t have to look each other in the face if we don’t want to. ‘You should count yourself lucky they’re not here,’ I add, ‘Mrs Allen would probably have torn your throat out.’
Arabella presses one hand to her neck, the self-conscious gesture so familiar that it throws me right back to how we were before. ‘So you told them?’
‘You should have told them.’
She stays silent, which I take as agreement.
‘And where are you staying?’ I ask.
She tells me about her current situation, living in Reacher’s old London flat.
The place is ghastly, she says, so tiny and squalid, then goes on to describe rooms that are nicer than any I’ve lived in before Harfold.
She’s struggling with no staff but a charwoman, although her finances aren’t as dire as she’d first feared – it seems Reacher had a bit of money tucked away, God knows where from.
I don’t tell her my theory behind this. ‘He never made a will, so it has all come to me as his only kin. Still … you can’t imagine how much I miss the manor,’ says Arabella.
As we have been speaking, her gaze has been flitting all over me, as if eager to take in every feature.
Perhaps calculating, perhaps just hungry.
‘How about you?’ she asks. ‘Will you be staying here?’
Shaking my head, I pour out her tea. ‘Milk?’
‘Please.’
‘I’ll be leaving as soon as I can sell the land,’ I say.
‘Where will you go?’ She uses the tongs to pick up a sugar cube, drops it in with a tiny splash. Stirs. ‘You’re not having any?’
‘Maybe in a bit. I’ve just finished a cup.
’ Where I should go next is a question I’ve been asking myself over and over, but I’m still not sure.
It’s high time for another reinvention, I think.
Leave Vee Morgan behind – she died at Harfold.
‘Maybe Aylesbury,’ I say eventually. Try to visit Mam face to face.
Apologize. She’ll have to forgive me eventually – won’t she?
Arabella tilts her head. ‘Why there?’
Of course: she doesn’t know about Mam and Dad.
Only in this moment do I realize that she’s never once asked me a question about my history, my family – she’s always just spoken about hers, as if it’s only natural that I should care about their lives.
I suppose I was so relieved when she didn’t show any interest in my past that I never stopped to realize how narcissistic that was.
‘I’ve always liked the regal ring of Buckinghamshire,’ I say at last.
She toys with the handle of her teacup, nudging it an inch to the left, then the right. ‘You seem well, Vee.’ A glance up at me. ‘Is that Charlie’s old jacket? I like it. It suits your figure.’ Her hand twitches, then she moves it forward to touch one of mine, the gesture slow, tentative.
I pull out of her reach. I’m suddenly tired, an exhaustion coming from deep in my bones. ‘Why are you here, Arabella?’
‘I wanted to apologize.’
That makes me laugh. ‘For which part?’
‘All of it. I wasn’t thinking clearly. You can’t imagine what it was like, to have that weight hanging over me, knowing that my time was approaching, but with no way to stop it.
I would have tried anything.’ She gives me a sad smile.
‘I only wish it hadn’t been at the price of what you and I had.
I really did love you, Vee.’ Bites her lip. ‘I do. I would still like to—’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing! ‘No,’ I interrupt, ‘that’s not how it works, Arabella. If you really love another person, you’re meant to want to trade your life for theirs, not the other way around.’
‘I was a coward! But Vee, don’t you see?’ Now she turns her gaze back on me, an excited shine to her pupils. ‘It doesn’t matter any more. The night you fell into the river—’
‘When you pushed me, you mean.’
She hesitates. ‘Yes. After I pushed you, at the same moment, I saw it there on the other bank. A dancing hare.’ She’s grinning now, animated with the memory.
‘I stood there and watched it, and I felt this sensation of absolute freedom come over me. It was as if I had been all tied up in a web that I didn’t even know was there, and now somebody had torn me loose.
I thought that I had transferred the curse to you, but I see now that, when you survived, it must have passed on to Morry instead.
And now it’s taken him, and it’s all over. ’
I shake my head at this. ‘Didn’t you hear what he said in the church? There never was a curse, Arabella. He made it up! He was using it to control you, for years and years.’
Arabella just smiles. ‘Well, that doesn’t matter. Either way, the curse is gone – I have escaped my death!’ Again, she tries to reach for me. ‘It doesn’t have to come between us any longer. We can try again.’
I twitch my hand away once more. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘You can’t forgive me?’
I look away. Clear my throat. Look back at her. The familiar high-cheekboned face; her gunmetal eyes and smirking lips. I can see in her features that same loneliness I noticed when we first met; the burning need for my approval. For someone’s approval. But I don’t need it for myself any longer.
‘I’m sorry.’
Her eyes harden. A resolution. This is what I’ve been waiting for. ‘Vee, we need to talk about what happened to Maurice. In the church, I mean.’
I lift my chin, look her level in the face. ‘He fell, Arabella.’
‘I know I was far away, but …’ She lets her voice trail off. ‘I would never tell anyone if you had—’
‘Don’t you believe me?’
Arabella turns away. ‘Yes, of course. I must have been mistaken.’
I give her a sad smile. So that’s it, then. ‘Drink your tea,’ I say. ‘It’s getting cold.’
She lifts it, obedient, then hesitates – just for a second. Looks at me. A tremor in her hand. Then she brings the cup to her lips and takes a sip.