Chapter Thirteen #2
We down our oars now and Arabella carefully manoeuvres round to come alongside me, leaning back and stretching her legs out over her own seat to balance the weight.
I shuffle down as well until I’m lying next to her, careful not to let my body dip in the middle: the footwell below us has gathered a shallow pool of water, possibly from a leak, possibly from our poor sculling.
Arabella removes her neckerchief, rolling it behind her head as a makeshift pillow, and starts to hum – not a tune I know.
I tilt the boater hat down to shade my eyes.
Between the rocking lull of the water and the warm light on my face, I’m completely at peace.
‘I was the one who found them,’ Arabella says, out of the blue. When I turn to look at her, she’s still staring up at the sky, face in profile. Her eyelashes cast spiked shadows over her cheeks, making her expression hard to read. ‘Mummy and Daddy. That was fifteen years ago, now.’
‘What were they like?’ I ask. ‘Tom always speaks highly of them.’
Arabella’s lips quirk up in a smile. ‘Tom wouldn’t speak poorly of someone if they stole the shirt right off his back.’
‘That’s true.’
She thinks for a moment, then rubs a hand over her brow.
‘Daddy could be a fierce man. Very protective, very proud. And Mummy was rather old-fashioned at heart, I suppose. They weren’t the sort to show a softer side, but we knew that they loved us, all the same.
They always put us first – no matter what.
Even when …’ Her pupils dart sideways to look at me, though her head remains still.
‘Well, as I am sure you can imagine, I wasn’t always the easiest of daughters. ’
‘You?’ I say, feigning surprise. ‘Go on, you’re a walk in the park, you are!’
‘And you are a horrible liar,’ she laughs, slapping me gently with one hand. I catch it and hold it out before me, tracing a finger over her lifeline. ‘What do you see?’
‘Long and happy,’ I say, planting a kiss in the centre of her palm.
‘Hmm.’ She pulls it away, and I realize I’ve said the wrong thing, reminded her of the curse fixation that she’s been doing so well to forget. ‘Of course, their death was when the chain started. If only we had known back then what was ahead of us …’
‘When did you’ – I pause to look for the right words – ‘first think there was a pattern?’
Arabella frowns in concentration. ‘Let me see … Well, it was Morry who suggested it first, actually.’
‘Was it, now?’ Try to keep the shock from my voice.
Reacher has previously told me outright that he’s never once encouraged the delusion.
I should have known that was a lie. Yet another way that he’s been taking advantage of Arabella over the years: of course it suits him perfectly to keep her housebound in fear for her life, to keep her attention turned away from whatever he’s been doing with her finances.
Locked in a little cage like poor Finchley.
But that doesn’t matter any more: there’s a sea-change happening at Harfold.
Because now I’m here to protect Arabella from her cousin’s schemes.
When she handed that deed to me to sign, knowing how strongly Reacher objected to it, it was all the proof I needed that she’s chosen me over him.
I’ve won. And he knows it too – that’s why he’s gone slinking off to lick his wounds.
You should know by now that people like you can’t win against people like me.
Well, this feels a lot like victory to me.
As if hearing my thoughts, Arabella twists her body so that she’s facing me. Smiles, showing her teeth. Puts out her hand again and traces – just with the fingertips – up my arm, elbow to shoulder. ‘Anyway, I don’t have to be afraid of that any longer, do I? Thanks to you.’
‘I didn’t really do anything,’ I say, as modestly as I can.
‘Oh no, Vee; you have done everything.’ She scoots closer and presses her hand to the back of my neck, beckoning me forward to kiss her again. Her lips linger on mine for several heartbeats, soft and unmoving. ‘Thank you,’ she whispers.
A sudden splash interrupts us, and we both shoot upright, looking round in confusion. There, by the shore: the tip of a grey nose, two wide eyes. A froth of foam.
‘No, you silly beast!’ shouts Arabella. ‘Go back!’
But Mutton won’t be told; he continues paddling toward us with an expression of determination.
‘Come on then, Muttsy,’ I shout.
‘Don’t encourage him!’
‘Who’s a good boy?’
The dog draws nearer, mouth gaping in anticipation, until he’s alongside us.
‘Don’t you dare,’ says Arabella, though it’s not clear if she’s speaking to me or to Mutton.
I give her a wink. ‘Come up, then, boy.’
Arabella just has time to shriek in disapproval before Mutton’s large paws are on the gunwale and he’s desperately trying to scramble aboard.
The whole boat goes rocking beneath us, and I jump back in an attempt to redistribute the weight.
Realize I haven’t quite thought through what the addition of a creature of his size would do.
There’s a split second where the angle is so extreme that I’m sure we’re about to go tumbling into the lake, but then Mutton is up and safely aboard.
He gives a tremendous bark of triumph, water streaming from his matted fur.
‘He’s going to—’
Arabella’s warning is lost to another scream as Mutton performs a full-body shake.
Back on dry land, we towel off and eat lunch, then Arabella digs around until she finds an old picnic gramophone and collection of records.
None of the songs are more recent than a few years ago, so I assume that these are yet more relics of Arabella’s brothers.
Even so, Arabella picks each one up with exclamations of fond recognition, as if she knows them well and had simply forgotten she owned them.
‘I love this one,’ she says, brandishing a copy of ‘Paddy McGinty’s Goat’, before promptly dropping it, the disc shattering into pieces as it hits the floor.
‘Oh, drat. No, it’s fine, there are plenty more. ’
I pick up the fragments of shellac, shaking my head. ‘Poor goat.’
‘Just like him to cause a nuisance.’
It takes a little more searching to find the spare needles, but eventually we’re set up to play music.
‘You choose,’ says Arabella, charitably presenting the collection of records to me.
I pick out ‘And Her Mother Came Too’, since I know the words to that one. Give the gramophone a wind. Pop it on and wait patiently through the dead hiss and crackle for the brass to kick in.
‘Ivor Novello is a Cardiff man, isn’t he?’ asks Arabella.
‘I think so.’
‘And a homosexual.’
I wiggle my eyebrows. ‘I hear they’re everywhere these days.’
Arabella laughs and begins singing along.
As I listen to her throaty rendition of the song – a young man complaining that he can’t get a moment alone with his girl without one of her family members turning up for the ride – I can’t help thinking: at least his girl’s relatives aren’t still interfering even from beyond the grave!
‘Shall we dance?’ Arabella asks.
I haven’t in years, not since before the trial.
I’d go out to the halls in Cardiff then with the Land Army girls, or occasionally with the Reeses’ younger maids, if they had an evening off.
Obviously I couldn’t dance too lovey-dovey with whatever girl I had an eye on: we’d have to make sure to giggle and clown about like any other female friends would.
Normally, I’d end up dancing with a random lad before the night was through.
I didn’t mind this so much – I normally found it funny – but some would get ideas and expect us to go with them next time we saw them as well.
Although that was more a problem for Gladys, who was always glamorous as a film star, whereas I didn’t tend to get sought out again in a hurry.
My steps are a bit rusty, but it must have been even longer for Arabella, so I let her take my hands and we have a spin around the drawing room, dodging the taxidermy and usual bric-a-brac and having to stop every few minutes to change the record over.
It’s perfect, nonetheless. I don’t believe in birthdays as grand occasions – there’s no particular achievement in clocking up another year of life – but even so, I feel my heart lifting in optimism at this one.
Once we’ve had our fill of dancing, Arabella suggests we go upstairs for a bit.
She takes the staircase at a gallop, laughing as she goes, calling me to follow.
I head after her, not really paying attention to the steps now that they’re not barricaded with obstacles.
This is a mistake. Toward the top, I lose my footing – the wood surface is smooth and polished now that Mrs Allen can get at it to clean.
There’s a moment of shock as my heel skids from under me, then my face smacks against the banister and I’m tumbling, each step pummelling me along the way.
I come to rest at the foot of the stairs, twisted partially on to my side. I lie there for what feels like an age. Taste blood in my mouth. Then the pain catches up to me and I groan, roll on to my back. Open my eyes. Blink away the tears that arrive of their own accord.
Upside down in my view, Arabella stares back at me from the landing, as if too surprised to act. Then she seems to gather herself. Picks her way down toward me. ‘Are you hurt?’ she calls.
I’ve bitten my tongue and there’s a dull, bruise-in-progress ache all up my left side, but I don’t think anything’s broken. My fingers and toes move when I tell them to. Gingerly, I prop myself up to a sitting position.
Arabella crouches at my side. Her fingers brush over my face, my scalp, my ribs. ‘All in one piece,’ she says. ‘Show me your teeth? Yes, still there. You know, if you had not made me move those newspapers, you would have had something to cushion your fall.’
‘Fuck off,’ I manage, pulling a face.
Arabella pats me on the knee. ‘I’ll fetch ice.’
As she disappears to find the Allens, I experiment with turning my neck to and fro.
Not too painful. When I look in the direction of the drawing room, I notice an object on the floor.
Recognize the so-called lucky hare’s foot.
We must have danced more enthusiastically than I’d realized earlier, knocked it down from its pin above the frame.
Reluctant to move, but knowing it will cause hell if Arabella finds it first, I get to my feet and limp over to pick it up.
I scramble to fix it back on the pin before Arabella can return.
My fingers come away dusted with dark powder and I almost drop it again in disgust. The reverse side, normally hidden from sight where it sits against the wall, is completely black with mould.