11. River
11
‘There she is,’ said Bartie, as they reached the cove. ‘Hey, Clara!’ he called across the sand. ‘I wondered where you’d been hiding.’
Clara, sitting on the rocks, her auburn hair blowing in the sea breeze, glanced over her shoulder. She seemed startled by their arrival but returned Bartie’s wave.
He was already walking towards her, undoing another button on his shirt as he moved across the warm sand, and River followed behind.
Sunbeams were dappling through the trees at the cove’s edge and River realised that he was literally walking in his cousin’s shadow, just as he always had metaphorically.
‘What are you reading?’ asked Bartie when they reached Clara.
She finished stuffing a small white book into the handbag lying next to her and looked up. ‘It’s nothing. Just a notebook.’ She cleared her throat. ‘What are you two doing out here?’
‘Looking for you.’ Bartie smiled at Clara. ‘We were worried about you. We thought you might be upset after hearing Geoffrey’s news. Isn’t that right, River?’
River nodded, though he didn’t think that worry about Clara was Bartie’s sole reason for seeking her out.
Clara sniffed, her face pale. ‘I’m shocked about it, to be honest, and my mum is distraught. It’s all come out of the blue.’
Poor Mrs N, thought River. He’d assumed his father would have told her before the big announcement but shock had ricocheted across her face as Geoffrey had imparted the news to everyone.
‘I can see why your mum would be upset after working here for so long,’ Bartie sympathised, his hands on his hips. ‘And you must be upset, too, because you’re both going to lose your home. It’s such a terrible shame, the whole thing.’
Bartie sat down next to Clara. He was so close their arms were touching but she didn’t move away.
‘Poor Geoffrey has been struggling with the situation for a while,’ he told her, pulling sunglasses from his pocket and putting them on. He looked even more like a leading man in shades, thought River ruefully. ‘But Geoff didn’t want to burden anyone with it at first. Not even River, here, which is understandable seeing as he was ten thousand miles away. But I was honoured when he reached out to me and asked for my help. That’s when I suggested that River should be involved.’
River scuffed his feet into the sand. That wasn’t exactly what had happened. Bartie had heard on the grapevine from his mother – a second cousin of his father’s – that Geoffrey was having financial difficulties, and it had been Bartie who had contacted Geoffrey to offer his services.
In the meantime, River had received a letter from his father, outlining his dilemma with the manor and asking him to visit. So his trip to England was already planned by the time Bartie got in touch with him. But it seemed that his cousin wasn’t about to let truth get in the way of a good story.
‘It’s really kind of you to help him,’ said Clara, turning to Bartie, who brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.
‘I’d do anything to help Geoffrey, who’s always been like a second father to me.’
River rolled his eyes because Bartie was laying it on a bit thick. From what he’d gathered, his cousin had hardly visited over the last few years. But then he, himself, had never visited at all.
River turned his face to the sea and focused on the puffs of white cloud scudding towards the horizon. The sky here was china blue, less vibrant than the bright blue he was used to in Australia. It was prettier, more delicate. A lot like Clara, sixteen years on. She’d grown into an attractive woman. The freckles were still there, scattered across her nose and cheekbones, which he was glad about. He’d always liked her freckles though, back then, she’d complained about them bitterly.
He glanced over his shoulder at Bartie and Clara, who were deep in conversation, Bartie seemingly engrossed in whatever she was telling him.
Did this constitute ‘having a crack at her’? River feared that it did and turned his attention back to the sea. He’d always felt protective towards Clara but they were no longer great friends and it wasn’t for him to look out for her. Perhaps she welcomed Bartie’s attentions anyway. She’d hung on his every word back when they were teenagers.
‘What do you think, River?’ Clara asked suddenly.
He turned. ‘About what?’
‘I was asking Bartie if selling Brellasham Manor really is the only option. It seems a bit nuclear.’
‘And what’s Bartie’s opinion?’
‘He reckons the house costs too much to run and is a lost cause. But surely there are ways of making money. You could open the house to visitors. Market the place and get tourists in. Do tours. Set up a café and a playground for little kids. Hold weddings, and events like the annual village fete that’s happening soon.’ She winced. ‘If it’s still happening soon.’
‘I’ve been racking my brain for various ways to boost income,’ said River, ‘but they all involve strangers at the manor and my father would never agree. He’s always guarded the house jealously and the annual village fair is about as far as he’ll go.’
‘He might change his mind if it would save the place and mean he could stay here.’
‘It wouldn’t,’ said Bartie bluntly. ‘The amount of money needed to bring Brellasham Manor up to scratch in the first place, so it’s fit for tourists and weddings, is substantial. And that’s money that Geoffrey doesn’t have. So I’m afraid selling is the only option. I wish there was something else that could be done.’
‘Me too,’ said Clara, her face glum. ‘There are so many memories in that house. So many echoes of people long gone.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Bartie, frowning slightly. He clearly thought Clara was being over-dramatic but River knew what she meant. As a sensitive teenager, he’d sometimes imagined history seeping from the walls.
He looked behind him, at the gardens and manor library just visible through the trees. He’d arrived yesterday, glad at the thought of being shot of this place for good. Hopeful that bad memories of the house would disappear when it was sold. But already his feelings were more mixed.
Back in Australia, the manor had seemed almost dreamlike. A place he’d once known that was mired in tradition and an outdated class system. In a younger country, enjoying the sunshine and a new start, he’d felt that it had nothing to do with him any more.
But he couldn’t deny the increasing pull he was already feeling to this house, to Heaven’s Cove and to the people who lived here.
Bartie’s phone suddenly rang and he pulled it from his trouser pocket, glanced at the screen and winced. ‘Sorry, I need to take this. Honestly, I’m only out of the office for a few days but they can’t cope without me.’
He took hold of Clara’s hand, held it to his lips and kissed the pale skin on the inside of her wrist. ‘It’s so lovely to see you again, Clara. Such an unexpected pleasure. I hope we can spend more time together, now we’ve renewed our friendship.’
Good grief, it was all so cheesy. River waited for Clara to roll her eyes or even raise an eyebrow, but instead she smiled up at Bartie and nodded. His legendary charm appeared to be working.
Bartie got to his feet and hurried away, speaking animatedly into his phone. The words ‘high-level mergers’ drifted back across the sand towards them.
Once Bartie was out of sight, River cleared his throat. This was awkward. It shouldn’t be. He and a former childhood acquaintance were simply enjoying the view – they’d sat here together enough times in the past, chatting and laughing. But that was then and a lot had changed since.
‘How do you think your father’s announcement went?’ asked Clara, gazing at the waves rippling towards the shore.
‘As well as could be expected, I guess,’ said River, who had found the whole event stressful. Everyone in the audience, including Mrs N, had been visibly shocked by the news and several had looked at him hopefully. As if he might be their knight in shining armour who would save the day.
Phillip, the gardener, had put their thoughts into words. Why doesn’t the son take the house on? And River had seen the disappointment on their faces when they’d realised the truth: he wasn’t here to save Brellasham Manor. He was here to help his father and Bartie sell it.
‘Do you want Brellasham Manor to be sold?’ asked Clara. She’d always been forthright and that obviously hadn’t changed.
River pondered his answer because the situation was complicated. He didn’t want the house. He never had. And he and his father had a relationship that was challenging. River had little in common with the austere, often cold man who had played only a minor role in his life since adolescence.
Geoffrey had made some efforts to keep in touch, and River, too, had sent birthday and Christmas cards plus the occasional email. However, he’d never been sure that his father liked him that much, whereas his father’s love for the manor house was evident. How ironic, thought River, that the old man appeared to love a pile of bricks more than his flesh and blood.
‘Or would you rather have the money?’ asked Clara when a silence stretched between them.
River stared at the girl to whom he’d once opened his heart. She’d known him so well once upon a time but now she didn’t appear to know him at all.
‘After we left here, Mum took me to live in what I suppose you’d call a commune, in the Australian outback. Money didn’t feature in our lives then and it hasn’t much since. I haven’t needed it to be happy. So, no, I wouldn’t rather have the money from this house.’
Clara held his gaze for a moment before looking away. ‘Have you been happy?’ she asked quietly.
River nodded. ‘Mostly. What about you?’
‘Mostly.’ She swallowed. ‘You know that my dad died last year.’
‘Yes. I was sorry to hear it. Your dad meant a lot to me.’
Clara blinked and pursed her lips. She looked like she was fighting back tears, and River had an urge to put his arms around her. To let her rest her head on his shoulder and weep for the parent she’d lost.
But he’d given up the right to comfort her the day he’d let her go.
A piece of paper, caught by the breeze, suddenly danced across his feet and River bent to pick it up.
‘Is this yours?’ It was a small scrap bearing a string of numbers.
Clara’s eyes opened wide as he handed it over. ‘Oh, yes. It must have fallen out of my book. Thanks.’
‘What’s with the numbers? Are you taking a maths course or something?’ He grinned, aware that maths had always been Clara’s nemesis at school. The subject that she would rail against at length as they sat here in this cove, back when they were younger and life was full of possibilities.
‘Yeah, something like that,’ she said tersely, pushing the paper into her open handbag. ‘It’s nothing important.’
She was lying to him. He could tell by the way she twisted her mouth and began to bite her lip, just as she used to do. But he let it go and gave her a faint smile.
‘I suppose I’d better get on.’
‘Yeah, you and Bartie have a lot to sort out.’
He should move – go back to the house and try to speak to his father. But his feet seemed planted in the sand.
‘So, tell me,’ he said after a while, ‘what will you do?’
‘Me? Oh, I have work to finish. Well, start, really. Flights and accommodation to organise in Geneva.’
‘Are you going to Switzerland?’
‘Sadly, no. I’ve been working as a virtual PA since moving back in with Mum, before Dad died, and I have some travel arrangements to organise for a client.’
‘Right. But actually I meant what are you going to do when my father sells the house and you and your mum have to move out of the cottage?’
‘Oh.’ Clara puffed air through her lips. ‘I guess we’ll find somewhere else to live, in the village, hopefully, and Mum will need to look round for a new job. We’ll be all right.’
Would they? River hoped so.
He tried to think of something else to say, but the atmosphere was strained and he couldn’t take much more stress today. So, he said goodbye and left her, and he only looked back once.
She was still sitting on the rocks, turned away from him, with her shoulders slumped. But she’d taken the mysterious piece of paper from her bag and was staring at it closely. Brellasham Manor, as always, had its secrets.