Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
C layton strode along the back garden path of his home, Mistletoe Cottage, and unlocked the double doors of the corrugated-roofed shed. Scouting around, he found what he needed – two pairs of extra-long tree-loppers – and lifted them out. As he locked the doors and headed back to the van, he sent up a silent prayer of thanks for the Sunday morning telly gardening programme which helped sustain people’s interest in their plots at this time of the year. Not that he would necessarily have chosen late November to cull the branches of the particular trees the owner had in mind, but he had to make a living, and mostly he was happy to follow the wishes of the customers, unless there was any danger of serious damage. Despite the prompt of the latest celebrity gardener, business naturally slackened off in winter, which was where the Christmas tree sales came in, providing a much needed boost to his income.
Throwing the loppers into the back of the van, he nipped back indoors to collect his personal belongings before climbing into the driver’s seat. As he started up and pulled out into Squirrel Lane, Clayton sent up a second prayer, this time thanking Laura Engleby for coming to his rescue over the Christmas trees.
When she’d first approached him with her suggestion, through the window of the van when they were parked in the high street, she’d seemed unsure of herself, even a little embarrassed, which wasn’t like Laura at all from what he knew of her. In fact, he’d go so far as to say she’d wished she could have retracted her words.
He’d understood her perfectly well, of course; she’d invited him to sell the trees from her garden, simple as that. But, because of her uncertain manner at the time, it had felt wrong to seal the deal there and then, which was why he’d agreed to her suggestion to go up to Spindlewood and discuss it properly. Not the only reason, if he was honest, but he didn’t want to think about that. Instead, he thought about Marcus Dartnell – or Spencer Jennings, as he called himself now.
Clayton had been downright shocked when, on his third only visit to Spindlewood, he’d come face to face with Marcus. He’d known for a fact that the man had left Charnley Acre years before, right after it happened, and scuttled back to the family home in Gloucestershire. Clayton had never expected, nor wanted, to set eyes on him ever again.
It had been a warm, sunny morning. Mrs Engleby – Laura – had come along the path where he and Saul had been putting up a new trellis for the climbing roses and asked if they’d like to come in for some tea, but they were busy that day, with several more bookings ahead of them. He’d had a flask with him anyway, and Saul had a ready supply of Cokes in the van.
And then, just as Laura had turned to go back to the house, the unmistakable figure of Marcus Dartnell had shadowed the space at the end of the path. His eyes had met Clayton’s with equal shock. When Laura had casually introduced him as Spencer, Clayton’s stare had hardened even more as they’d exchanged the obligatory nod. Then Marcus had put a proprietorial arm around Laura’s waist and, with a final loaded glance at Clayton, had drawn her away.
Marcus Dartnell . Clayton’s sworn enemy. And he didn’t have many of those. No others at all, in fact. Clayton wasn’t given to hating, or even disliking, anyone. In his book, there was always a reason for the way people behaved, if you only knew. But for Marcus he made an exception. No reasons, no excuses, just…
A black cat shot across Squirrel Lane, causing Clayton to brake and bringing his mind sharply back to the present. He steered the van out onto the main road before he let his thoughts wander again, this time towards Laura Engleby. How could a woman as lovely as her be in a relationship with someone like Marcus? It had been all Clayton could do not to challenge her about it; make sure she knew what kind of man she’d got herself involved with. Did she even know he wasn’t using his real name? He’d bet his life she had no idea. But it was just a fantasy conversation, pointlessly rehearsed inside his head. It could never happen in reality. He was the gardener; his employer’s private life was none of his business. What was more, he’d had to train his mind to think of the man as Spencer, not Marcus, in case he inadvertently blurted it out in front of Laura.
Much as Clayton had tried to justify Spencer’s presence at Spindlewood, it was obvious what his status was; he’d passed the man driving out of Laura’s gate at eight in the morning. What was almost as galling was that, leaving aside the kerfuffle over the development site which already showed signs of blowing over, most of the locals thought Spencer Jennings was one of the best. It was easy to be taken in by a well-dressed, well-spoken man who strode around the village, exuding bonhomie at every corner, and forking out a bundle for the latest good cause. So, he had a ready smile and money to burn. Didn’t make him a better bloke, did it? It didn’t make amends for what he’d done.
Nothing could do that.
Clayton had almost spilled the beans in the Goose and Feather the other night, once he’d got into his stride. He hadn’t, of course, because of Laura, and how hurt and humiliated she’d be if she found out in that way.
Since that first confrontation in Laura’s garden, Clayton had managed a gruff greeting if he ran into Spencer when Laura was present, and Spencer had done likewise. Otherwise, by silent mutual agreement, the two men ignored each other. But that had changed when the plans for the housing development were made public. Clayton had attended the meeting in the village hall, and there he had exchanged more words with Spencer than he had since the bloke had turned up in Charnley Acre like the proverbial bad penny.
As for the unfortunate scene in the Goose, that had been entirely down to Spencer. Clayton had been minding his own business, enjoying a quiet pint and a game of darts with a couple of mates, and Spencer, sitting up at the bar, had been going on about his ‘victory’ with the planners, like he was some sort of local hero. His voice had been raised, making sure Clayton heard. What was he to do but stand up and tell Spencer exactly what he thought? As if he didn’t know already. But that wasn’t the point. Clayton wasn’t going to sit there and keep schtum, as if he was some kind of namby-pamby walkover.
The familiar burst of frustration at the arrogance of the man, coupled with a set of brand-new feelings which heightened Clayton’s instinctive need to protect Laura, sent his temperature rocketing. His foot reached the brake pedal, pressing unnecessarily hard.
‘Hey,’ said Saul, getting up from the bus stop bench where he’d been waiting and levering his long body into the passenger seat. ‘What’s with the emergency stop?’
Clayton said nothing. Instead, he took a few long breaths to calm himself. Shrugging, Saul plugged himself into his iPod and settled in for the ride to the tree-lopping job.
Four o’clock, and the day was already closing in around him. Having dropped Saul off, Clayton steered the van along the familiar web of narrow roads. The muted browns and greens of the wintry landscape stretched out on either side. Above the South Downs in the distance, the sky had already descended into grey, streaked faintly with pink. It would be December soon; his worst time of the year. The run-up to Christmas was almost harder to bear than the festival itself. Once Christmas arrived, it wasn’t too long before he was safely on the other side of it.
Until the next time. Five years, and it never got any better. Would it, ever?
The fork in the road was ahead. Taking a left turn would lead him straight to the village, and home. To the right was Charnley Hill. Without thinking too much about it, Clayton took the right-hand fork. The road climbed gently at first, then more steeply. The van seemed to have a mind of its own as it turned in between the gates of Spindlewood. She might not be in, of course. She was; her car was parked at the top of the drive, in front of the house. Light glowed in one of the downstairs windows. He had an excuse to be here; he wanted to confirm the date the Christmas trees would arrive, and iron out a few details. And they hadn’t fixed a day for the wisteria to be cut back. Laura had agreed it needed doing, and there was other trimming and general tidying to be done before winter set in properly. He could have made these arrangements on the phone, of course. But he had been passing, so…
Damn it all, he was here now. There was no need for him to make such a meal of it, was there?
She came to the door before his finger was off the bell. He hoped that didn’t indicate that she was annoyed at being disturbed, but he forgot about that as she gave him a warm, welcoming smile.
‘I saw the van. Come in. The kettle’s on.’ She held the door wide to let him in. ‘You only just caught me. I’ve not been home long. I got away early today. Usually it’s way after four.’
Clayton remembered her telling him she was a teacher, of special kids at that. He’d bet she was a damn good one. Instead of leading him to the kitchen, she ushered him into the living room where two lamps with blue-and-white ceramic bases the size of oil-drums emitted honeyed pools of light.
‘Have a pew,’ Laura said cheerfully, waving vaguely towards a couple of huge, plum-coloured sofas. ‘I’ll bring the tea in.’
Off she went, leaving Clayton to choose his seat. The sofa he sat on had a battered cardboard box perched on the end. Other boxes stood on the floor. Leaning sideways, he peeked into the box on the sofa. Christmas decorations. That was all he needed. Turning his gaze from the other boxes, he distracted himself by looking at the painting on the wall above the fireplace with its ornate tile surround. He’d been in here once before, he remembered, when Laura had invited him through while she fetched his money. He’d admired the fireplace then, but hadn’t had time to take in much else. The painting was a landscape of Cuckmere Haven, done in oils.
Laura was back, and saw him looking. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it? It’s by a local artist. James and I used to enjoy walking there.’
‘James… your husband?’ Clayton knew her husband had died some while back but hadn’t known his name.
‘Yes. Was.’ Laura smiled brightly, giving the impression this wasn’t a time for sympathy.
At least she hadn’t said she went walking there with Spencer. Clayton felt unduly pleased about that.
Laura handed Clayton his mug of tea then sat down on the floor beside the boxes. She stood her own mug down on the faded carpet. Not only faded but threadbare in a number of places, as were parts of the sofas visible beneath tumbling heaps of multicoloured cushions. The room had a faded elegance about it, coupled with a homely, lived-in feel, the same as the big old kitchen.
‘I know it’s still only November but I had a sudden urge to sort through the decorations,’ Laura said, tugging a tatty string of gold tinsel from one of the boxes and frowning at it. ‘Some of this will definitely have to go.’
The whole lot could go as far as Clayton was concerned. He felt the downward tug of depression; he was powerless to stop it. Astute woman that she was, Laura noticed – he could tell by the sudden concern in those blue-grey eyes. He wished her knowingness extended as far as Spencer Jennings.
‘I’ve only just lit the fire,’ she said, glancing at the tentative, flickering flames. ‘I expect it’s like an icebox in here, only I don’t notice it myself.’
Rallying, Clayton smiled. ‘It’s fine. My place is a lot easier to keep snug because it’s so small. Could probably fit the whole thing in this room. But there’s only me.’
The faint sensation of a blush showed on Laura’s cheeks. He hadn’t meant to embarrass her but somehow he must have done. Or perhaps it was the heat from the fire that was starting to stoke up nicely.
She laughed, a little awkwardly. ‘There’s only me here most of the time, and look at the space I’ve got!’
‘It’s a beautiful house. Quite a gem.’
‘It is, isn’t it? I’m so glad you said that.’
Laura turned her attention back to her box of decorations, kneeling up to yank out another tangle of tinsel, and other stuff at random. Clayton didn’t look too closely. Instead he looked at Laura herself. She was wearing narrow jeans, with a soft, pale-blue roll-neck jumper and red woollen socks patterned with cartoon sheep. Her shoulder-length straight blonde hair was tucked carelessly behind her ears. As she twisted round, her hair sparkled in the firelight. She moved again, and some of the sparkle loosened itself and fell onto the carpet.
‘Look at that. One of the boxes nearly came down on my head when I got it down from the attic. That’s very old sparkle, that is.’ Laura licked her finger and dabbed up some of the silver fragments. ‘Nothing but dust really. I really need to chuck some of this.’
Clayton was silent. He hadn’t come here to talk about Christmas decorations, nor to see them unpacked before his eyes. On the other hand, Christmas had to be mentioned since it was the main reason for him turning up without warning. He drew Laura into the subject of dates for the tree sales and other details, and in minutes the thing was sorted, leaving Laura to her festive deliberations.
‘Oh, while I remember,’ she said, suddenly looking up. She was holding a felt reindeer with bent antlers and a squint. ‘I’m having a party on Christmas Eve. Would you like to come? There are some invitations but I haven’t got round to giving them out yet. They’re only bits of paper, anyway.’
The Christmas Eve parties at Spindlewood were legendary. She hadn’t invited him in previous years but he supposed the Christmas tree thing had prompted it. He bit his lip, for the moment stuck for a response.
‘Not just you, of course,’ Laura said, mistaking his hesitation. ‘Bring somebody if you like. Partner, girlfriend, whoever…’
Now, it seemed, it was her turn to lose the power of speech. Kneeling over the box of decorations, she began fumbling about inside. Her hair escaped from behind her ear on one side and fell to hide her face; he sensed she was glad of it.
‘Nope. There’s nobody like that.’ Clayton hoped he sounded non-committal and that she wouldn’t take his reply as an acceptance to the invitation. He had no intention of going anywhere near her party.
‘Okay. Just you then.’ She smiled, and sat back on her heels. ‘You’ll know a lot of people anyway. Most of them will be the usual suspects from the village.’
Including Spencer, Clayton thought, grimly. Another reason for staying well away. Laura seemed to be waiting for an answer.
‘Thanks. I’m not sure what I’m doing yet,’ he said.
‘Yes, of course. It’s early yet, as I said.’
Clayton knew exactly what he’d be doing at Christmas. Shutting the door of Mistletoe Cottage – unfortunate name – and staying put until it was all over. Avoiding Christmas, if such a thing were possible, had become second nature. Selling the trees was okay, though; he could manage that without too much trouble. All he needed to do was exude a bit of false Christmas cheer and think about the money he was making. Get himself into the right mindset, and all would be well.
But he couldn’t stop anxiety prickling him, like the damn pine needles, when Laura said, ‘I’ll put my name on one of your trees, though, if I may. The real ones smell gorgeous once you bring them indoors, don’t they?’
Clayton nodded; it was all he could manage. The scent of the tree at Mistletoe Cottage that year had suddenly become unbearable. He’d thrown it out into the garden; lights, decorations and all. One of the first things he’d done after the police had left.
Laura offered him another cup of tea. It was tempting to stay in her company for a while longer, in spite of her decoration-sorting, but she was probably just being polite; it wouldn’t do to outstay his welcome. Soon she was seeing him to the door, having arranged a day for him to give the garden what she called its winter tidy.
As the van rattled down the drive, Clayton saw Spencer’s dark-blue BMW arriving at the gates. It purred to a standstill on the road outside, waiting for the van to come out before entering. The manoeuvre was completed without either man acknowledging the other.