Chapter 20
CHAPTER 20
O n Monday, Emily left the square, glass-fronted building, home of the Cliffhaven News , and walked slowly across the forecourt to the staff parking bays. Her head felt muzzy, her eyes gritty from staring at the screen all morning. She was supposed to have been writing up a piece about the controversial new sewage works at Cliffhaven, but once she’d started delving, she hadn’t been able to stop. Getting into the car, she took her lunchtime sandwich from her bag, then changed her mind about eating it there and put it on the passenger seat before starting the engine.
Ten minutes later, after a distracted drive through the town during which she’d been tooted at twice, she arrived at the car park on top of the cliff. There was only one other car there, and hardly anyone else about. It was perishing cold with a biting wind; not the best sort of day for a clifftop walk, but she needed the air to clear her head. Locking the car, she pulled up the hood of her parka and tightened the strings before setting out along the tufted grass, taking care to stay well back from the fence and its warning signs.
The granite-grey sea rolled and crashed. A tanker brushed a dark shape on the choppy horizon. I saw three ships come sailing in insisted Emily’s anxious mind. On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day . Should she tell Laura what she’d found out about Spencer? Come clean about the way she’d tricked him into revealing his real name and pass on the results of her morning’s research, which would be even more devastating? It would ruin Laura’s Christmas. But maybe it was better than waiting until she’d done something stupid like getting herself engaged to the bloke.
On Saturday, Emily and Laura had driven to Lewes, then taken the train into Brighton for some last-minute Christmas shopping. Last-minute for Laura, that was; her friend usually had all her presents wrapped and labelled by the first week in December, whereas Emily’s own idea of last-minute was a dash round the shops half an hour before they closed on Christmas Eve.
Over lunch in The Lanes, Laura had gone all sparkly-eyed and giggly, which wasn’t like her. If anyone had both feet on the ground, it was Laura. Emily hadn’t known what to say when she’d heard about the ‘special’ Christmas Eve Spencer had hinted at. She’d always encouraged Laura’s relationship with Spencer, admittedly with her fingers metaphorically crossed behind her back – she’d never been totally convinced he was good enough for Laura; he was too controlling, in Emily’s opinion. But if her friend was happy, who was she to go spoiling things?
But now…
Since the date that never was, Emily had been wondering whether Spencer was hiding behind a fa?ade. And then, there were Laura’s remarks about the boring business functions, and Spencer’s expectations as to what she wore and how she should look. She might have spoken with a good dose of humour, but none of this boded well for their future relationship.
She’d played down Laura’s news and advised her not to rush into anything, especially not at Christmas, a time of heightened, and possibly unreal, emotions.
‘You’re right, Em,’ Laura had said, when she’d stopped sparkling. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t be coerced into doing anything I don’t want to do. Actually, I don’t know if I want to get married again, and there’s Holly to consider. But it’s nice to be asked, isn’t it?’
Emily had relented then, and they’d ordered a bottle of elderflower fizz and had a good old giggle about men and romances, past and present.
But that was then. Before Emily knew that Spencer Jennings was really Marcus Dartnell, the man who had caused Louise Masters’ death and lied his way out of it. Okay, that was never proven, but Clayton must have been pretty sure, as was the journalist who’d obviously spoken to him and then written up the article in one of the nationals after the court case was over. From what Emily had read in the newspaper archives, doubts over Spencer’s – or rather, Marcus’s – version of events had been scattered like daisies across a hundred acre field. Opinion didn’t count without facts, but mud stuck where it was thrown.
It explained everything: the mysterious mention of ‘history’ between Spencer and Clayton, his insistence that Laura should have nothing more to do with Clayton, the row between the two men in the Goose and Feather, and – Emily had only just thought of this – Spencer’s failure to introduce Laura to his parents and brother.
He must have been horrified when he discovered Clayton was Laura’s gardener, and that he’d be setting up shop at Spindlewood for weeks on end, never mind having to face him over the development site dispute. He must be on tenterhooks, wondering if, and when, Clayton would present Laura with his side of the story. Presumably, as Clayton had said nothing to Laura so far, he wouldn’t be doing so. That little task had fallen to Emily, although how she was going to break the news she had no idea.
Emily stopped walking and stood gazing out to sea. The tanker had moved east, a distant smudge. The line of the horizon was barely visible, grey on grey; it could be raining out there. The wind stung her eyes. She wiped them with her gloved hand, then headed back towards the warm sanctuary of the car.
Monday morning, and Laura was making mince pies to go in the freezer, in case Holly didn’t get round to it.
The university term had finished on Friday, and Laura had waited all of Saturday, expecting her daughter either to put in an appearance or ring to let her know what was going on. By Sunday morning there was still no word. Not wanting to play the part of the worrying, clingy mother, Laura had waited until ten and then she’d rung Holly.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ Holly had mumbled through a headful of sleep. ‘There was a party last night. I thought I said. Didn’t I say?’
‘No, you didn’t,’ Laura had said, feeling disappointed. Hearing Holly’s voice, she was missing her now. ‘It doesn’t matter, as long as you’re all right. Did you have a good time?’
‘Great.’ Laura detected a sigh, or it could’ve been a yawn. ‘Listen, Mum, would you mind if I stopped on here a bit longer? Only there’s stuff happening, but I’ll be down in a couple of days.’
‘Stuff? What kind of stuff?’
‘Oh, you know, just stuff.’
How enlightening, Laura had thought. Did all students on the English course have as limited a vocabulary?
‘Are you cool with that, Mum?’
Laura had stifled a disappointed sigh. ‘Yes, I’m cool with that. Enjoy the… stuff , and when you do get back, ring if you need a lift from the station.’
It was only a few more days. They’d have plenty of time together when Holly did eventually get herself home. Laura floured and rolled and cut and filled. Holly always made star shapes to go on the tops of the pies. Laura always made rounds, twisting the point of a knife in the pastry to let the steam out, but today she made stars.
Later, she eyed the baked pies with satisfaction. They were the perfect shade of pale gold. The aroma of buttery pastry and rich, spicy mincemeat from one of the jars she’d bought in the village filled the kitchen; the essence of Christmas. She picked up a pie and took a bite, then waved a hand in front of her mouth as the hot mincemeat scorched her tongue. Delicious, though.
She cleared up from the baking, leaving the mixing bowl to soak in the sink, and made a coffee. Peering through the steamed-up kitchen window, she watched the trees at the top of the garden sweeping back and forth in the strengthening wind, their branches scratching patterns against a forbidding-looking sky. It had rained heavily in the night, and more rain was forecast. She hoped the weather people were wrong; Clayton and Saul had enough to contend with, being outside with only that flimsy tarpaulin for shelter. Sometimes they sat in the van; she’d seen them do that.
Finishing her coffee, Laura wandered upstairs to the turret room. The windows were rattling quite violently. Most of the upstairs windows rattled, but these were the worst because the position of the turret on the corner of the house meant that it caught the full force of the weather.
She noticed the wall was damp beneath the central window. Not just damp – a section of the wall was really wet and rainwater had run down and soaked into the carpet. Stooping to investigate further, she prised the carpet away from the wall and peeled it up. The floorboards were wet. This must have been going on for a while, and last night’s downpour had added to the problem. She examined the windowsills. They needed replacing, inside and out; that would have to wait a while longer, but she could plug the gaps in the meantime. To do that properly she’d have to wait until it was dry again, but a little emergency repair work was certainly in order.
The rain had already begun when, ten minutes later, Laura fastened back the door of the smaller shed while she scouted about amongst the boxes and general clutter. Filler. There used to be some. She’d had to use that before, on the bathroom sill. And wood; she could fix a piece of wooden beading across the top of the sill. It would look awful but a bodge-up job was all she had time for right now. Nobody went to the turret room except her, and anyway what did looks matter as long as the rain was kept out? A crusty-looking tub of filler revealed itself from the shelf containing old tins of paint. The lid was stuck fast. Laura located a screwdriver and attacked the lid. It came away suddenly, bringing a gloop of grey filler with it which promptly spread itself over her hand.
‘Damn!’
‘Are you okay in there?’
Laura turned to find Clayton in the doorway. He was wearing a grey beanie hat, pulled well down over his forehead; it made him look like a young, very cute, mugger. Laura stifled a giggle.
‘Yes, thanks. I’m going to use some of this. Or I was, if there’s enough left.’ She examined her sticky hand and made a face.
‘Can I do it for you, whatever it is?’ Clayton said, stepping inside the shed.
‘It’s awful out there,’ she said, ignoring Clayton’s question as she looked past him at the rain, which was now virtually horizontal as the wind carried it. ‘You can’t stand out in this, selling Christmas trees. You’ll have to pack up.’
‘We’ve been out in worse. Saul’s in the van, but yes, I think we’ll give it up for today. The punters won’t be rushing up here in this.’ He thumbed towards the other shed. ‘I came to get some more twine to bind up the trees but I don’t think I’ll bother now. So what was it you were planning on doing with the gunk?’
Laura explained about the window, and the piece of wood she might use as well, although there didn’t seem to be anything suitable in here, and goodness knows where the wood glue was.
‘I can do it,’ she said, in case Clayton thought otherwise. ‘I just need the right equipment.’
‘Which is where I can help, if you’ll let me,’ he said. ‘I’ll drop Saul off, nip back to mine and come back with the necessaries this afternoon. I’ll soon have it fixed. No point in you doing it, unless you’ve got a burning desire?’
Laura almost blushed, but held it back. She wished he wouldn’t use expressions like that. Having Clayton fix the window would be useful, though; she had other plans for this afternoon, including wrapping the presents she’d bought in Brighton on Saturday. On the other hand, perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea…
‘No strings,’ Clayton said, correctly interpreting her hesitation. ‘I said before I’d do some stuff around the house, and I’d be happy to help out, especially in an emergency. And now I’m free for the rest of the day…?’
Laura smiled. ‘Well, then, if you’re really sure, yes please. I would be grateful.’
‘Great. I’ll need to do a recce of the site first, if that’s all right with you.’
Was this wise, Laura thought, as the two of them made a dash through the rain to the house? But he’d said no strings ; that oblique reference was his way of telling her he knew where he stood, so there shouldn’t be any awkwardness between them after his failed invitation to dinner.
‘Oh, wow.’ Clayton gazed around the turret room, after they’d dripped up the stairs. ‘I’ve never been inside a circular room before, except in a castle. Great view of the garden. The light coming in from all sides is fantastic.’
‘It’s my special place,’ Laura said.
Clayton nodded, understanding. She showed him the problem with the window. She’d peeled the carpet back further and tucked an old bath towel into the space. It was already damp. Clayton’s inspection only took a few minutes, then he was bounding down the stairs and out of the front door with a promise to come back in around an hour.
Back in the dining room, she wrapped the red cashmere sweater she’d bought for Spencer, and Emily’s present, a pendant with a smoky blue stone she’d admired when they were in Brighton – Laura had sneaked into the shop and bought it. After a while, she noticed that the rain no longer hammered at the windows, the wind had dropped and the sky had lightened in places to an optimistic diluted blue. How quickly everything changed. This afternoon, Clayton would come to fix the window. Afterwards she’d give him tea and a mince pie in the kitchen, and they’d be back to how they were before.
Clayton sat in the Goose and Feather, his pint in front of him. It was his second drink. The alcohol and the warmth from the log fire were doing a great job in mellowing his mood, as was the casual banter being exchanged around the bar; he’d been slightly on edge when he’d got home from Laura’s.
From the back room came the click of billiard balls and the strident voices of Charnley Acre’s younger residents. Saul was amongst them. He still had a thing for Holly Engleby – he’d thrown her name into the conversation enough times for Clayton to catch on to that. Well, the girl would be home soon. If she was anything like her mother, Saul would have to up his game if he wanted to date her.
Which was exactly what Clayton himself intended to do with Laura.
He’d behaved with great restraint today, he thought, privately congratulating himself. He’d enjoyed fixing the window – a temporary fix but it should see her through the rest of the winter. He’d do anything to help Laura, he really would. He’d fix up the whole damn house if she would let him, the bits that were within his scope, anyway. She’d been very grateful for the window repair, and, of course, she’d insisted on paying him. Knowing she’d feel more comfortable if he took something, he’d accepted the rough cost of the materials he’d used, and a little on top. He’d politely turned down her offer of tea, pretending he had something to rush off for, although the only place he’d wanted to be right then was in Laura’s kitchen, having a cosy chat at her table. The swift look of disappointment in her eyes was reward enough for his sacrifice. The connection was still there. All he had to do was to find a way through her determination to keep him at arm’s length.
All . Yeah, right. Clayton laughed softly to himself.
‘Share the joke then,’ came from the next table.
‘Nothing you’d find funny,’ he said.
Actually, he was remembering what Saul had said about Spencer – Marcus – being no competition, and a ‘tool’ as well. Right on both counts.
Clayton looked towards the door of the pub, almost willing Spencer to walk in. Although the sight of the man, and especially the thought of him with Laura, made him feel physically sick, he quite liked the idea of giving him a filthy look, a proper facing. The door continued to swing as customers came and went, but no Spencer. Perhaps he was up at Spindlewood, with Laura in his deceitful arms, right at this moment. Clayton downed the rest of his pint fast, to dispel the image.
Talking of upping his game, perhaps he should come clean and tell Laura, straight out, how he felt about her. He’d never been shy with women before, so why start now? Okay, Laura was obviously a woman of integrity; she wasn’t the two-timing type, which meant that in order to go out with him, she’d have to give Spencer the old heave-ho first. He had to leave her space and time to do that, didn’t he? He couldn’t expect to get a ‘yes’ straight away. Given her kindheartedness she was hardly likely to dump Spencer so close to Christmas.
If he was to stand any chance of success with Laura, he must be patient, play the waiting game and see how things panned out. He wouldn’t wait too long, though. Just long enough for her to regret having turned him down. Just long enough for her to realise where her true affections lay – with him, not with that lying, jumped-up, toffee-nosed apology for a man.
The thud of darts hitting the board a few feet away jolted Clayton’s mind back to reality. It wasn’t going to happen, was it? Him and Laura. He was living in a dream world. Anyway, how come he’d gone and fallen in love when he’d had no intention of doing that again for the foreseeable, because he’d decided his life was absolutely fine as it was? Fallen in love . Now, there was a thing… Chuckling softly at his own daftness, Clayton picked up his glass and realised it was empty. Another? Or should he get off home now? Somehow, the thought of turning the key and opening the door onto a silent, empty house didn’t appeal. He got up and went to the bar.