chapter Six
Kendric House must have been a beautiful place once upon a time. A time long, long ago. Yes, my car goes through pretty gates under a stone arch, but the swirling wrought iron is rusted, and dead vines climb all over it. The long drive curves all the way to the magnificent house, but close up, all the windows on the upper floors are dark, grimy, or cracked. The front garden is dead beyond any resurrection. Yet, the front door has been repainted a pretty light green and has a beautiful art nouveau knocker in pewter or silver or something.
People do live here because there are several cars parked in front of the house, a couple of 4x4s and a classic Saab. One of these must belong to my biological father.
Squaring my shoulders, and keeping my jumping heart from flying out, I lift the silver knocker and give it a couple of raps.
Nothing.
I knock again, a little louder.
Again, nothing.
Considering the size of this house, a small pretty knocker is unlikely to be heard anywhere. I try one more time, banging the knocker really hard. It’s only then I see the footpath. The kind you get when many feet have walked over grass and crushed it to solid earth.
I follow it along the wall towards the side of the house. It’s one of the arms of the X, a wing of the house, and judging by the six clean windows, it’s the wing that’s being renovated. At the end there’s another door, a smaller wooden one, also painted the same pale green, and this one has a proper modern bell. It makes a loud ringing sound inside and after a minute, a man shouts, “It’s open, just push it.”
Inside, a builder in white overalls and a back-to-front baseball cap, stands on a ladder. He’s painting the edge of the ceiling with a tiny brush.
“Hi?” He looks down at me.
“Hello, I’m here to see Professor Jones.”
The man dips his brush into a small bucket hanging from the ladder, wipes his hands on his overalls, and climbs down. Jumping the last three rungs, he lands on the floor with a light thump.
“Hi. I’m Alex.” His eyes linger on me, and, as if recalling his appearance, he snatches off the dirty baseball. He also wipes a sleeve over his face. “How can I help?”
“I’d like to see William Jones please,” I repeat in as serious a tone as I can make it.
“He’s not here.” His gaze travels over me. It’s quick and no doubt he thinks I didn’t notice. “Can anyone else help?”
“When will he be back?”
He turns his palms up in a ‘who knows’ gesture. “Are you one of his students?”
He stands a little too close, smiling slightly, and looks as if he would like to feast his eyes on me all day.
“Can I speak to someone in charge, please? Perhaps someone who lives here.”
His smile widens. “You can speak to me.”
I hate this kind of thing; God, how I hate it. Attention from men who don’t even know me.
Crossing my arms tightly over my chest, I ask, “Are you the owner?”
“Hardly. But I live here.”
What does that mean?
Oh wait, didn’t Welsh Hagrid say there were tenants? Suddenly, I wish he were still here instead. He never even tried to flirt and he seemed kind and safe. Yet, I never even asked his name.
Come to think of it, he didn’t ask my name either.
“Can I make you a coffee?” Flirty builder ups the ante by taking a step towards me.
I take a step back away. “Do you know where I might find William Jones?”
Just then a door behind him opens, and a woman comes through, a blonde little girl holding her hand.
The builder steps aside and moves the ladder to make room for her. “Haneen, this lady is looking for the professor.”
She turns a cheerful face towards me. “Hello?”
Haneen, if I’ve heard the name right, seems much more at home here than this man. She’s dressed casually in mustard corduroy dungarees and a maroon jumper. Her chestnut hair is up in a messy ponytail. Could she be the professor’s wife? If I had to guess, I’d say mid to late thirties. Too young, but who knows? And the little girl? Does she resemble the man in the picture? Impossible to say. “Are you his wife?”
“Me?” she laughs. “No. God, no. the professor is a bachelor. He’s away on a research trip to Ireland. Can I help?”
Ireland? The words hit me like a door slamming in my face. “When is he expected back?”
“Not sure.”
Meaning…a week, a month, a year? They don’t seem to know much between them, which leaves me at a dead end. Now what do I do?
Haneen watches me for a moment then asks, “Would you like a cup of tea?”
I look around, but there’s nothing apart from the builder, the ladder and the smell of turpentine. “Erm…” is all I can say.
“Come through to the kitchen.” She ushers me toward a door down the hall.
Not knowing what else to do, I follow.
The kitchen is a big, toasty-warm country canteen with trestle tables, benches and crates of potatoes and squashes stacked against one wall. The warmth comes from the massive wood-burning Aga at one end. Haneen leads me to one of the tables.
“Have you come far?” she asks as she helps the little girl into a chair.
“London.”
“Heavens!” She looks up surprised. “That’s what, four or five hours?”
“Yes. I left at half five.”
I watch her go to the Belfast sink and fill the kettle. She moves like someone not only at home but also in charge.
“Have you even had breakfast? Sit.” she adds when she notices me standing uncertain in the middle of the kitchen. “Henrietta is my daughter. And you are…?”
“Leonie, Leonie Henderson.”
“Leonie.” She smiles. “Lovely name. Unusual.”
I take one of the chairs at the same table with her daughter. “Dad chose it for me.” I have to swallow the splinter of pain that comes with the words. Mum apparently had wanted to call me Diana after the princess, but Dad insisted. He could be very assertive when he wanted, not the loser doormat guy horrible Howard called him.
I shake my head to banish the memory and notice Haneen’s eyes on me in a long, perceptive glance.
“How do you know the professor?”
The unexpected question makes me answer honestly. “I don’t, really. It’s just that I found out…” I catch myself before saying too much. “We’re sort of related.”
“But he didn’t know you were coming.” She guesses.
“No.” I try for a casual laugh. “Seems stupid now, just turning up unannounced.”
She gets busy making the tea, pops two slices of bread into the toaster, then ladles porridge into three bowls and brings everything to the table.
I’m cold and hungry and have had nothing apart from petrol station coffee near Swindon, so although porridge has never been a favourite breakfast, I accept it. The tea is just the right strength and warms me up nicely but the wonder is the bowl of fluffy, creamy and delicious porridge. It loosens me up and pushes back my confusion and worry so much I find myself relaxing and even chatty.
“Hello, Henrietta.” I start with the little girl. “That’s a very nice jumper.”
She looks at me with big eyes then down at the red and cream jumper, smoothing a little hand down the pattern of strawberries on its front
“Do you like strawberries?” I try again, a very lame question.
Kids must hate the meaningless things adults ask when trying to be nice. And Henrietta doesn’t answer. She just looks at me, then at her mother.
“My daughter doesn’t always speak, particularly to strangers. She’s a selective mute.” Haneen says this very matter of factly as if she’s had to explain it many times. “But when you get to know each other, she’ll speak to you.” She offers me hot buttered toast and refills my tea mug.
“She’s shy?”
Haneen kisses the top of her daughter’s head with so much love. “No. Just left over from a difficult past. Her father was… difficult.” She says the word difficult as if it’s code for something much worse.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say quickly. “I understand.”
“You’re wrong. I do have to tell you because it’s important. People assume just because she doesn’t speak that she doesn’t hear and they don’t watch what they say. She’s very bright and catches everything.”
Despite the serious comment, Haneen sounds gentle and sweet.
“, and. Just be yourself around her. Sooner or later she’ll decide if she can trust you.”
The girl’s eyes flick between me and her mother, big blue-green eyes. Actually, blue with green at the centre like a pool. Now that I notice, they’re exactly the same as her mother’s.
“The professor doesn’t always follow a schedule.” Haneen brings us back to the original subject. “He might be back in a week or two then again he might be back tonight. And he rarely switches his phone on. I can text him but it’s anyone’s guess whether he’ll see the message anytime soon.”
“But he lives here?”
“Oh, yes.” She nods emphatically.
Encouraged by her openness, I ask. “What does he do?”
Again, Haneen seems to consider me before answering. “He’s researching the history of this house.”
“Is there a B he can work it out.
Haneen types the text, actually typing for a longer time than the words I gave her. I wonder what else she might be telling him.
“I wouldn’t hold my breath,” she finally says handing the phone back to Evan. “He might not see it until tonight if he’s working. He can be very focussed.
That sounds like the man Mum described, at his books for hours.
But he proves us all wrong, not half an hour later, a text comes back. Evan doesn’t read it out to me, but he nods as if it was the answer he hoped to get.
“The professor will be back tonight or tomorrow morning.”
My shoulders relax, I hadn’t even realised how worried I’d been. How afraid.
He must have read the message, worked out who I was and decided to cut his trip short. Or maybe he was ready to come back anyway. Either way he didn’t deny all knowledge of me and instruct them to kick me out. That is the man I hoped he’d be. Not as my mother described, but the nice man who took responsibility and paid for his child.
He’s on his way, and now he knows it’s me. That takes care of the difficult ‘I’m your biological daughter’ introduction.
I start to get up and grab my coat from the back of the chair. “That’s great. Why don’t I go and book myself a room at the Pub you mentioned and maybe come back tomorrow—”
“I don’t think you need to do that.” Evan stops me. “If you’re family, you should stay here.”
Stay here?
No.
It’s one thing to turn up unannounced, quite another to hang around like a stalker. I’d also be making things awkward for him here,. If they call him the professor instead of just William or Will, that surely means they’re not that close. My accepting their invitation would put him under obligation to them; he might not appreciate that.
“Thank you but there’s no need. If the pub has vacancies, I can stay there. I have my own car anyway.”
My manner, or my voice, must tell them something.
Haneen walks back to the table, her eyes never leaving my face. Her expression kind and … perceptive. Laying a gentle hand over mine she says, “it’s okay, Leonie. Really, don’t worry. You are very welcome to stay. I’d have offered you a room earlier. We just wanted to double check with the professor first.”
So much for my poker face.
She sits down, next to Evan. “And you don’t have to tell us anything more.” He, too, nods. “It’s your business, yours alone.”
My hands fidget with the hem of my jumper. I make them stop. “It’s just a very complicated situation.”
“Families are always complicated,” Haneen says with a small smile. “Both Evan and I could write chapters about our complicated families.”
Something about these two people loosens my tongue: or perhaps it’s the warmth of the kitchen and the comfort of buttered toast and tea.
“I’ve been a bit hasty and drove up on a whim.” I try to explain. “My next job starts at the end of November. A Christmas panto tour of Aladdin . Which means we’ll be travelling around the country. My flatmate had to give up her flat, and I didn’t want to stay with my mum. It seemed like the perfect time for a little road trip.”
This is what I mean. Even on the day I thought I was taking charge of my life, I’ve ended up a damsel in distress needing help with everything from direction to accommodation. I hide my face behind the third mug of tea and gulp down the hot drink in the hope it’ll reinforce my confidence.
“Leonie,” Haneen says when I finally lower the empty mug down to the table. “There’s no need to feel beholden.”
Either she’s very perceptive, or my face is very easy to read. And I call myself an actress!
“If you think you’re putting us out, stop worrying. We have lots of rooms here.”
“Actually, you’d be helping,” Evan takes up the explanation “We might have a very big house, but as you can see, it’s very old and mostly uninhabitable. There are a few rooms in this wing.” He glances at the ceiling to indicate the rooms are upstairs. “They’re pretty dirty. If you’re willing to clean one of them and furnish it, you can consider it a fair exchange. I’ll get, Wyn to help you. He’s one of our teenagers and knows where everything is. He’ll show you where to find the store furniture.”
“Choose the room with the blue lady.” Haneen gives me an encouraging smile. “It’s nearest to the good bathroom.”