Chapter Seven #3
At the dressing table, I find a small, framed watercolour of a horse.
Picking it up to look closer, I note that the signature on the front marks it as another of Harry Lascy’s works.
Sweet: the older brother painting the younger’s beloved mount as a gift.
But looked at now, with the knowledge of how Charlie met his end, there’s a sad aura about it, as if the painting had always foreshadowed the accident.
Placing it back down, I leave Charlie’s things behind and start the morning.
I have to borrow more of Tom’s clothes, then the pair of us go out to investigate the cottage, looking, I’m sure, like a comedy duo in our matching outfits.
The flood has gone down by the time we get there, but water is still pooled everywhere inside.
Tom shakes his head. ‘I reckon we’ve still got a hand pump from last time this happened. It will need a good long time to dry out proper, mind. I don’t reckon it’ll be safe to live in for a while. Should at least check for structural damage first.’
‘You mean I can’t just move back in?’
He rubs the back of his neck, lips pressed in a tight line. ‘Not really, no.’
A concerning outlook. Tom reviews the upstairs servants’ quarters and – as he’d predicted – finds rotted boards, fuzzing mould and sagging, damp-stained ceilings.
There’ll be no moving into them. He says he can ask around to see if there’s somewhere in the village that can take me.
But Arabella is having none of it: she insists that I remain in Charlie’s room.
‘Really, you will be helping me out, Vee. I hate how empty the house feels, especially when Morry’s away.
You forget that I grew up here with four brothers!
No, stop arguing, I won’t hear any more about it.
You are staying.’ There’s a desperation in her tone that makes me believe she isn’t just saying this to be kind.
A glimpse of that same lonely desire for connection that I’ve noticed in her before.
Later in the day, Tom helps me to salvage my belongings and bring them over, make room for them among Charlie’s old things.
As we’re carrying the last armful to the manor, Reacher’s car appears up the drive, moving slowly around leftover puddles.
‘Hello!’ he calls, pulling up in the turning circle. ‘What’s all this, then?’
Tom starts to fill him in, shouting to be heard over the noise of the engine.
‘Pardon?’
‘A flood, Mr Reacher!’
Frowning, Reacher leaps down from the car, before leaning back into the passenger seat to pick up the covered birdcage he always brings with him. ‘Oh dear. So Miss Morgan will be in with you, will she, Tom?’
‘Lady Lascy has her up in Charlie’s room.’
Reacher’s frown deepens. ‘In the main house?’
‘It was Arabella’s idea,’ I cut in, not wanting him to think I was the one to insert myself uninvited.
‘Ah yes, Arabella.’ Reacher puts particular emphasis on the name – a reminder that this familiarity’s strange in itself.
He seems about to say more, but cuts himself off with a smile, although his expression remains strained.
‘Well, in that case: what fun!’ Does he disapprove of accommodating the help in the main house, or is there another objection working away at him?
Perhaps he’s simply envious – he’s been the closest person to Arabella for years, from what I’ve heard.
He may see me as a threat to this intimacy.
I think of yesterday night, Arabella’s easy air as she helped me to dress, warmed my hands.
But no: I’m sure I’ll be back in the cottage soon enough, and Arabella’s whim will be long forgotten.
On my way to bed in the evening, I have first to pass the corridor to Reacher’s room.
Walking past it tonight, I catch birdsong again, and glance to see that his door is open, spilling warm light out over the floorboards.
I must pause without realizing, as Reacher’s voice drifts out a second later: ‘Is that you loitering around, Miss Morgan?’
‘Sorry,’ I reply. ‘I heard your bird.’
‘Come in and meet him, if you’d like?’
Well, I have no reason not to, so I enter the corridor and draw up to Reacher’s doorway.
As with Charlie’s room, his appears to have been left untouched by Arabella; it’s neat as a pin inside.
Simple furnishings, no clutter beyond a dog-eared book on the bedside table.
I find Reacher himself lounging in a cushioned armchair facing the corner, where a wooden stand displays the cage, now uncovered.
‘This is Finchley.’ He gestures to the smallish, round-chested bird perched inside.
It has blue-grey and deep brown plumage on its back, reddish-pink on the breast, with a flash of white striping the wing feathers.
Stepping closer, I recognize it as an ordinary chaffinch, the type you can see in any garden.
As if in greeting, Finchley repeats his song, a series of fast notes ending in a lively flourish.
‘He’s sweet, isn’t he?’ I say.
Reacher nods. ‘He’s a cheerful chap, wonderful company. Would you like to feed him a mealworm? He’ll take it right out of your hand.’
I accept the brown paper bag and pluck up one of the dry yellow grubs, before holding it out on my palm against the bars of the cage.
True to Reacher’s word, Finchley hops closer on his perch to consider it, then jumps to cling to the cage bars by the feet, poking his beak out to peck up the offering.
‘You’re not strictly allowed to keep them any more,’ Reacher tells me, ‘but he had a broken wing when I found him, and I couldn’t very well leave him out there to get eaten, could I? Give him another, go on. I do spoil him a bit.’
‘How come he sings at night, then?’ I ask, holding out another mealworm.
‘You can train an animal to do almost anything you like if you are persistent enough,’ says Reacher.
‘When I first got him, I kept him covered up night and day until he forgot what the difference was between them. Now he sings whenever he sees light, no matter whether it’s the sun or a candle.
’ He nods to the lamp burning at his bedside.
‘People used to poke out their eyes with a pin, but that strikes me as barbaric. I couldn’t do something like that to you, could I, Finchley dear? ’
I crouch down to the bird’s level. His eyes glimmer like two black gemstones, and I can’t help but imagine what it would be like to push a pin into them. The moment the sharp point breaks the surface. I swallow back nausea.
Unaware of the dark turn in our talk, Finchley lets out a new sound, a pip-pip, turning his head to and fro.
‘I wonder what he’s saying.’
‘That particular noise is known as “pinking”,’ says Reacher. ‘It’s a contact call – the cry birds use to signal out to one another.’
‘So he’s asking, “Is anybody there?”’
‘Exactly.’
Finchley gives the pinking call again, then cocks his head, listening out for an answer that will never come.
‘Isn’t he lonely?’ I ask.
‘No,’ says Reacher. He runs a finger over the cage bars, creating a musical noise of his own. ‘He doesn’t remember any other life than this.’
Wishing Reacher goodnight, I make my way back to Charlie’s bedroom.
On my pillow, I find a folded cloth. Another needlepoint work, Arabella’s style familiar by now from the number of times I’ve re-examined the first one.
In this picture, I’m in my sodden nightgown, dripping water like some kind of river sprite.
My contours rendered in remarkable detail where the fabric clings. Dark shadows of nipples over the chest.
Flushed with swift heat, I shove the embroidery under my pillow where it can’t be seen. I can still hear that pip-pip from Reacher’s bird carrying faintly through the walls. It makes me feel a sudden wave of loneliness myself.