Chapter 8
EIGHT
She woke the next morning with a strange sense of dislocation.
Daylight was streaming through the open window.
But it was so quiet! It was like the silence when a noisy machine you’ve become used to was suddenly switched off.
The frenetic background roar of South London at night, the sirens and car alarms, the hum of the South Circular, the honking of Ubers and the buzzing of Deliveroo mopeds – all were gone, replaced by distant baaing and the occasional rattling bark of a magpie.
Beside her, Matt was still asleep – a rarity; usually he was up long before her, running or on the rowing machine. The rest of the house was silent as well.
She got up without waking him and walked barefoot around the garden, enjoying the coolness of the dew on her feet as she picked another bowl of plums. She loved the way these orchard plums were so much less perfect than supermarket ones, studded with tiny crystals of dried sap.
You had to split them open with your nail before you put them in your mouth, though; occasionally, tiny weevils were to be found feasting on the insides.
By the time she came back in, the others were up and eating breakfast.
‘Will has a request,’ Matt told her. ‘He thinks the first thing we should do is . . .’ He cocked his head at Will.
‘Find the secret cellar!’ Will finished.
‘Oh – definitely.’ It was crazy to think there was a whole room they hadn’t even discovered yet. But Damon hadn’t offered to show them and it hadn’t been marked on the floor plans. ‘Damon thought it was under the dining room, didn’t he? Maybe we need to move the table.’
Matt shook his head. ‘I’ve looked at the floorboards. There’s nothing that could be an opening.’
They abandoned breakfast, all eager to solve the mystery.
‘Perhaps it’ll be full of rum,’ Tilly said breathlessly.
‘You know, that the captain was going to sell to his friends.’ It was what Kate would have imagined at her age, although now – perhaps because she was a mother – her mind jumped instead to all the things she wouldn’t want her children to find, even though she couldn’t quite picture what those might be.
They looked in all the obvious places, opening cupboards, lifting rugs, tapping the panelling for concealed doors. Kate was just about to say she’d call Rosemary and ask, when Matt, who’d gone to check the cupboard under the stairs for a second time, said triumphantly, ‘Found it!’
They all went to see. The floor of the cupboard, it turned out, was actually a hinged piece of wood that could be lifted at the front, then latched to the underside of the staircase, directly above.
And the switch inside the cupboard door turned on not just the bare lightbulb next to it, but more bulbs below ground, dimly illuminating some ancient-looking stone steps that led down into the void.
There was no handrail. Kate instinctively put her arms around the children – they’d pushed in front of her, eager to see.
She couldn’t help but imagine them tumbling down, bashing their heads against those unforgiving stones.
‘I’ll go first,’ Matt said, reading her mind. ‘Kids, wait till I say it’s safe.’
He went down a few steps, keeping one hand on the wall to steady himself. ‘They’re uneven,’ he reported, ‘but completely sound.’
He reached the bottom, then turned to look back up. ‘OK. One at a time.’
Kate went last. The cellar, she saw as she reached the bottom, was a bit larger than the dining room above.
As well as the electric bulbs, there was a grimy window giving on to a kind of lightwell at the front of the house.
It was overgrown by a shrub, which was why they hadn’t spotted it from the outside.
The ceiling of the cellar was particularly beautiful, almost like a crypt, vaulted with ancient bricks.
This must be the Tudor part of the house that Damon had mentioned, she thought.
It looked as if the cellar had mainly been used for storage.
Where she was, near the steps, were several crates of empty champagne bottles.
Further in were piles of cardboard boxes; a desk; an old sofa, black with mould; a vintage stereo, complete with turntable and radio receiver; and a shop mannequin wearing a Trilby hat, with an electric guitar slung round its neck.
A sign, grimy with dirt, spelled out Disco Club.
It appeared to be plugged into a lightbulb holder, though the bulbs inside it were clearly long defunct.
Matt took a look in one of the boxes. ‘School books,’ he reported.
He pulled one out and read the inscription aloud: ‘Jamie Finch, Bogle’s, 1991.
’ As he put it back, the cardboard disintegrated, spilling more books on to the floor.
Kate saw an atlas, Roget’s Thesaurus, a Latin primer.
And, beneath those, some dog-eared magazines with scantily clad women on the covers.
Deftly, Matt reached down and slid them out of sight before the children spotted them.
‘No rum?’ Tilly said, disappointed.
‘They should have cleared all this before they left,’ Matt said, looking around. ‘Guess they couldn’t be bothered.’
‘Or they forgot it was down here,’ Kate said, in Rosemary’s defence.
‘Either way, it’s our problem now. I’ll order an extra skip.’
After the excitement of the secret cellar, neither she nor Matt felt much like unpacking. She did a bit in the kitchen anyway, putting crockery away in cupboards, then heard an engine roaring to life outside and went to see what it was.
Matt had started the ride-on lawnmower Rosemary and Paul had left them. It sounded massively powerful – a meaty rumble coming from what was almost a small tractor, nothing like the tiny electric mower they’d had in Dulwich. But, of course, the lawn there had been minuscule compared to this.
Will was running towards his father, eager for a ride.
Matt let him balance in front of him, then set off with a jerk that jolted them both backwards.
Gleefully, he opened up the throttle, sweeping round the lawn, hollering with delight, just as Will was.
They looked so alike sometimes, Kate thought, two peas in a pod.
Then she saw Matt’s exultation turn to concern, and then panic, and she realised something was wrong.
He couldn’t stop, couldn’t even steer – the mower was spinning round in an ever-tighter circle, as if the steering had locked.
She saw Will fly off, going sprawling on the ground.
And already the mower was coming round again, towards where he lay.
Recognising the danger, he was trying to scoot backwards, out of the way, but too slow—
She opened her mouth to shout, but quick-thinking Matt had already leaned sideways out of the mower, toppling it on to its side. Getting to his feet, he went and cut the engine.
‘Oh my God,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Are you all right?’
‘All good,’ he said calmly. ‘Will?’
‘That was cool!’ Will said. ‘Let’s do it again!’
‘I think we’ll wait to find out why the steering stopped working first,’ Matt said. He looked at Kate and mouthed, ‘Sorry.’
Impulsively, she went over and hugged Will. He bore it for a moment, then wriggled free. ‘Don’t be weird, Mum. It wasn’t like I was in any danger.’
‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘I just like hugging you.’ He was almost at that age, she thought, when physical contact would start to become awkward. She made a mental note to enjoy her hugs with him while she still could.
The afternoon was spent getting organised.
A local builder was coming the next day to quote for minor renovations, but they already knew they’d have to do a lot themselves.
The plan was for Kate to strip wallpaper and repaint, while the builder moved the Aga and redid the bathrooms. The garden, Matt would tackle at weekends.
The conversion of the outbuildings, which would require listed building consent, would be designed and overseen by a specialist architect.
It was about four o’clock when she looked out of the window and saw Paul’s black Labrador trotting purposefully up the garden. She called to Matt, in the next room.
He came to see. ‘He must have pushed through the hedge. I’ll tell him to go home.’
Biddy, though, had other ideas. He positioned himself by the back door, sat as if in response to an unspoken command, and thumped his tail enthusiastically. A glistening stalactite of drool hung from one lip.
‘I think he’s expecting to be fed,’ Kate said.
‘Home!’ Matt said firmly. ‘Go home!’ The dog took absolutely no notice.
‘I’ll take him.’ But although Biddy let Kate steer him by the collar towards the gate in the hedge, the moment she let go, he turned and trotted back to Trade Cottage.
She heard Rosemary’s voice on the other side of the leylandii, calling him, and shouted, ‘He’s over here.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Rosemary came through the gate, holding a lead.
‘I don’t think he’s quite understood that we’ve moved.
And he usually has his tea and a walk around this time.
Well, not so much the walk anymore, but .
. .’ She shrugged. ‘I’ve been trying to cut his rations, now he’s getting less exercise, but it just makes him even greedier. ’
Biddy had already returned to his station by the back door. As she retrieved him, Rosemary waved at Will, who was swinging on the rope over the pond at the side of the house. He waved back eagerly, almost falling off in the process.
‘I don’t suppose . . .’ she said thoughtfully.
‘What?’ Kate asked.
‘Might Will and Tilly like to earn some pocket money walking him?’ Rosemary gestured at the woods. ‘There’s a footpath on the other side that goes through Pelham Park towards the village – they wouldn’t need to go on any roads.’
‘I think they’d love that,’ said Matt, always keen on the children earning money for chores – as a boy, he’d done the same. He called to Will, ‘How’d you fancy walking Biddy for money, Will?’
‘For money?’ Will ran over eagerly. ‘I’d love to walk Biddy. But you don’t need to pay me.’
Kate was rather proud he’d said that. But Rosemary said, no, she’d definitely pay him, and then Tilly ran up too and was instantly jealous that Will had been asked and not her, so it was arranged they’d take turns.
‘Incidentally, Rosemary, since you’re here.’ Matt gestured at the mower. ‘We had a problem with the steering on that thing. Are we doing something wrong?’
Rosemary looked blank. ‘I’ve no idea. But Robert will be here tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll know.’
‘Robert . . . ?’ Matt asked.
‘The gardener.’ She saw Matt’s surprise. ‘Oh dear – should I have stood him down? I never thought . . .’
There was a slightly awkward silence before Matt said, ‘I’m afraid we can’t afford a gardener. But it’s good he’s coming tomorrow – he can show me how it works before he goes.’
‘He’s very handy round the house, as well,’ Rosemary added. ‘He’s been doing all sorts of odd jobs for us.’
Matt said nothing. He’d already commented to Kate how botched the most recent repairs had been.
To cover the pause, Kate said, ‘We found some things in the cellar, by the way – they look like they’re Jamie’s, from his schooldays. We’re assuming you don’t want them?’
‘Oh!’ Rosemary said. ‘Yes, he used to have parties down there, before he and his friends were old enough for the pub. Feel free to give it all to a charity shop or something.’ She hesitated.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve come across my notes anywhere, though, have you?
They wouldn’t have been in the cellar, but I can’t for the life of me think where I did put them.
A box of papers, about this big.’ She indicated several inches with her hands, and glanced wistfully at the house, as if she might go and search for it one more time.
‘Not so far,’ Matt said. ‘But if anything turns up, we’ll be sure to tell you.’ His manner was polite but firm, as if telling a drunken guest they weren’t allowed back into the party.
Kate said quickly, ‘I’ve been eating the plums, Rosemary. So delicious. Would you like some to take back with you?’
Rosemary beamed. ‘That would be lovely. And perhaps a few gooseberries, too, since I know you’ve got so many. You must be dying to get rid of them.’
It was easier with just the two of them.
As they walked down to the orchard, armed with the wooden baskets that had also been left at Trade Cottage – ‘trugs’, Rosemary called them – the older woman said thoughtfully, ‘He’s just being territorial, poor old thing.
He’ll get over it.’ For one awful moment, Kate thought she meant Matt, then realised she was gesturing at Biddy, now padding happily alongside them.
The gooseberry bushes were in the fruit cage.
It really was huge, she realised, as she clambered through the little door – the size of Trade Cottage’s sitting room.
And if the captain’s study felt like the house’s inner sanctum, this felt like the garden’s secret heart.
Once past the green, frothy raspberry bushes – already dotted with pale fruits – the two of them were completely hidden from the outside world.
Rosemary had insisted they bring gloves, for which Kate was soon grateful.
The gooseberry bushes were covered with spikes, and although her hands were protected, her arms were soon dotted with pinpricks.
‘Ouch,’ she said involuntarily, as yet another thorn pierced the inside of her elbow – a tiny currant of blood fattening on her skin, then bursting under its own weight.
She pulled off her glove to smooth it away with her thumb.
Rosemary, she noticed, didn’t seem to get pricked at all, even though her basket was filling up at twice the speed of Kate’s.
‘There, that’s masses,’ Rosemary said after a minute or two.
‘Really?’ Kate looked at the laden bushes. ‘I don’t know what we’re going to do with the rest.’
‘I usually do a gooseberry fool – it’s lovely on these hot summer days. And jam, of course, and chutney. And gooseberry gin is rather fun.’
‘I don’t know how to make any of those,’ Kate confessed.
‘Would you like me to show you?’
‘Oh – goodness. Yes – I’d love that.’ Then, because she suspected Matt would want to prioritise sorting out the house, she added, ‘Perhaps when Matt’s gone back to work. He’s only taken this week off.’
‘Of course.’ Rosemary smiled at her. ‘To be honest, I’m rattling around a bit up there with Paul. It’ll be something to look forward to.’