Chapter 10 Birdy
BIRDY
Six months earlier
I’ve made some bad choices in my life, but hasn’t everyone?
Nobody gets it right all the time. Hopefully coming back to Hope Falls won’t turn out to be yet another mistake.
I explore the rest of Spyglass, and as I turn the lights on in each room I have to keep reminding myself that I own this place now.
The solicitor warned me that the property was historically significant and that as such came with various ancient covenants attached.
One was that the original bookcases in the library at the back of the house were not to be renovated or removed.
He explained that they were installed over a hundred years ago by a famous local carpenter who went on to work for the royal family.
“Well, whoop-de-fucking-do,” I told him, and my reaction was clearly not what he was hoping for.
I hate disappointing people, despite being so good at it.
The paperwork the solicitor gave me—which made excellent bedtime reading as it sent me straight to sleep—said the house came with another covenant which, to me, seemed far more interesting than the first. There was a photocopy of what I think was an original handwritten document from the 1800s declaring in elaborate ink-stained writing that “No merriment making is to be had within these walls.” Looking around the place now, I don’t think there is much danger of that.
The solicitor explained it was something to do with liquor licenses as the owner of Spyglass also once owned the pub in the village.
I guess they didn’t want any competition in the merriment-making business if the property ever changed hands.
I find the little library at the back of the house, and although the bookcases are rather beautiful, and crammed with books, having a preservation order attached to them seems a little overkill.
But what do I know? All I do know is that I have inherited this old house from a grandmother I thought I never knew, and yet, each room fills me with an unfamiliar sense of nostalgia.
I often feel as though I have lived lots of different lives in one lifetime.
I had to grow up fast and I’ve had to move, and move on, more often than I should.
But I wish I could remember more about this place and the time I spent here as a child.
The blue room is the one that conjures the loudest feeling of déjà vu.
The formal sitting room has navy walls and a matching ceiling decorated with painted gold stars.
I remember this. There is a chandelier that looks far too big and grand for the house, and a huge stone fireplace.
There is a single stocking hanging over it, as though it were Christmas, even though it is not.
I reach inside and find a small square jewelry box.
When I open it I see an enormous ruby ring, so big it must surely be fake or it would be worth a fortune.
I slip it on my wedding finger—the only one without a ring—and to my surprise it is a perfect fit.
I stare at the blue velvet sofas on the other side of the room, knowing that I once sat on them, even if I don’t know when or with who.
There is an ancient TV built into a wooden cabinet on legs in the corner.
Now that I see it, I think I remember watching cartoons on this old TV set as a child.
A hazy memory of doing so, sitting next to a dog on this blue rug seeps into my mind, but I’m not sure if it’s real.
I continue to look around, and I guess the library was too small for all my grandmother’s books, because there are piles of them everywhere in this room too.
Stacked on shelves, leaning against walls, arranged in teetering piles in the middle of the floor.
There must be hundreds of novels just in this one room.
My mother always said books were the best company. It seems her mother felt the same way.
I’m about to leave the room when something catches my eye: a framed photo on the mantelpiece above the fireplace.
But unlike the photos I found in the hallway, this one isn’t of a dog.
It’s me, maybe age five or six, sitting on the lap of a gray-haired woman in this room.
I guess that’s her, my grandmother, but even when I pick up the picture for a closer look I do not recognize her face.
I wish I could remember something about this woman who clearly played more of a role in my life than I knew. But I can’t.
Next to the photo is a stack of envelopes tied with string wedged between some dusty old novels.
There must be over thirty envelopes here, and each one has my name written on the front in the most beautiful calligraphy.
I trace the black ink with my fingertips, my rings reflecting the light of the ostentatious chandelier.
I open one of the envelopes and find a Christmas card for me.
To dearest Olivia, my favorite little birdy. Why won’t you fly home?
The others are all the same, just with a different year scrawled at the top. Tucked inside each card is a swallow’s feather, and I instinctively touch the tattoo on my hand.
Maybe my grandmother did love me after all.
Perhaps she just didn’t know where to find me.
Why else would there be decades of cards here all with my name on them?
There is a large antique freestanding globe in the corner of the room.
It sits inside an elaborate wooden stand.
I spin it and my mind is filled with the memory of a gray-haired woman doing the same.
She walked her fingers from England on the vintage sphere-shaped map, around the slowly spinning globe, then said, Life is too short to stay in one place.
But however far we travel, we all find ourselves back where we started eventually.
Her fingers came to rest on England again, exactly the spot I am touching now.
I pull my fingers away, as though the globe might be haunted, or cursed, wondering if the memory is real or just my tired mind playing tricks on me.
There is a wingback armchair covered in a patchwork design by the fireplace, like a hideous comfy throne.
I recognize it from the photo. This is the chair my grandmother was sitting in when the picture of me on her lap was taken.
It’s clearly very old, and she must have used it a lot over the years because I can see the indentation of where she sat.
As though she is still sitting in it. There is one other framed photo in the room, so small I almost miss it.
It’s of a little girl holding a flashlight in what looks like a dark tunnel.
She is me, but I do not remember this photo being taken either.
A loud knock on the front door startles me.
I drop the frame and the glass smashes on the parquet floor.
Shit.
I ignore whoever knocked and look for something to sweep up the mess with.
It’s probably just a nosy neighbor outside and I can do without that right now—I can do without that, period—but they knock again just as I step into the hall.
Almost as though they know I am there. I mutter a few profanities beneath my breath then unbolt the door and open it just enough to politely tell them to fuck off.
Except I don’t. I’m surprised to see a rudely handsome young man standing on the doorstep.
He’s wearing a black shirt and blue jeans and an expression that suggests he is equally surprised to see me.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
He frowns, as though he was expecting someone else. “I was down in the village and noticed that the lights were on up here.”
“How very observant of you,” I say.
“I wanted to check that everything was all right.”
“Fine, thank you,” I tell him, already starting to close the door.
He puts his hand on the door to stop me. “Can I ask what you’re doing here?”
“You could ask but I’m not sure it’s any of your business.”
He hesitates before speaking again, as though he can’t quite make up his mind about me. He isn’t the first and he won’t be the last.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to intrude and I don’t want to scare you.”
What a patronizing fucker. As if I’d be scared of a little shit like him.
“Do I need to call the police?” I ask.
He smiles. “I am the police around here,” he says with a baffling dose of pride. “That’s why I came to check on the place. It’s my night off, but I couldn’t understand why the lights were on at Spyglass when I knew nobody was home.”
I look him up and down and I believe him.
He looks like a police officer, albeit a young one.
Too inexperienced to know what he is doing, too arrogant to know it.
I am not remotely intimidated by a boy playing detective; I’ve outsmarted people like him my whole life.
I can already tell he falls into the category of oh-so-fucking-predictable.
“Can I ask your name and what you are doing here?” he says, and I almost feel sorry for him.
Almost.
“I’m Olivia Bird,” I tell him.
But then his face folds into a frown and he shakes his head. “Olivia Bird is dead.”