‘Of course not.’ She laughed. ‘I’d just like to know why the house has this reputation. It is a bit sort of dramatic!’
‘Well, I suppose it is on dark nights with the wind howling round. I must say, I can’t wait to come and see it.’ There was a pause. ‘I don’t suppose I could look in this weekend, could I? I know it’s getting awfully near Christmas but term’s practically over. I can look a few things up for you; find a few books, perhaps?’
She laughed, extraordinarily pleased. ‘Of course you can come! That would be wonderful. One thing we are not short of is space, providing you pack enough warm clothes. It’s like the Arctic here.’
When Luke came in, carrying a filthy small boy, both of them cold and terribly pleased with themselves Joss was smiling to herself as she stirred a huge pan of soup. ‘David’s coming up the day after tomorrow.’
‘Great.’ Luke held Tom under one arm over the sink and reached for the Swarfega. ‘It will be nice to see him. He’ll bring news no doubt of dear old London and civilisation.’ He chuckled, smearing green goo all over his small son’s hands as Tom crowed with delight. Luke glanced at her over the sticky curls. ‘He’s not going to make you feel you’re missing out, is he? Rural stagnation instead of academia.’
She shook her head. ‘Nope. If I want to get back into it, I can always start some kind of research project with the prospect of a book in about a thousand years’ time. Or something less academic and more lucrative. The book David suggested I have a go at, perhaps. I might just have a chat to him about that.’ The idea had in fact been growing on her.
Reaching for the pepper mill she ground it over the soup, stirred, put down the wooden spoon and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘You haven’t asked how I got on with Mary Sutton.’
Luke raised an eyebrow. ‘I could see it was good and bad when you came back. Want to tell me now?’
‘Both my little brothers died here, Luke. In accidents.’
She was looking at Tom, suddenly aching to hold him. How could her mother have borne to lose two boys?
‘Nothing will happen to Tom Tom, Joss.’ Luke could always read her mind. He changed the subject adroitly. ‘Listen, talking about Tom Tom and your writing what do you think of the idea of asking Lyn if she’d like to come and help you look after him. As a sort of proper job.’ Drying Tom’s hands he posted the little boy in Joss’s direction with a gentle slap on the behind.
Joss held out her arms. ‘While she’s out of work, you mean? She’s certainly good with Tom and we could do with some help, though we could only pay her pocket money. It would give me time to get on with the house.’ She smiled. ‘And write my best seller.’
‘No joking, Joss. We need the money. You’ve had stuff published in the past. I’m sure you could do it.’
‘In the past it was in academic magazines, Luke. They don’t exactly pay megabucks. And just those few short stories.’
He smiled. ‘Mini bucks would do, love. I do think you should give it a go. Anything to help. Keep us in bread and spuds until next year when we start our own vegetable patch, vineyard, bed and breakfast business, vintage car restoration workshop – with small business grant –’ he had all the papers spread out over the dining room table – ‘herb nursery, play group and counterfeit money press.’
She laughed. ‘I’m glad we’re not contemplating anything too ambitious. Pour me a glass of wine to celebrate and we’ll drink to Grant, Grant and Davies Industries.’ She hauled Tom onto her lap and dropped a kiss onto his hair, screwing up her face at the smell of oil and hand cleaner and dirt. ‘You need a bath young man.’
Tom wriggled round to smile dazzlingly up at her. ‘Tom go swim in the water outside,’ he said.
Joss froze. Her arms tightened round him as suddenly the image of another small boy rose before her eyes, a small boy collecting tadpoles from the lake.
‘No, Tom,’ she whispered. ‘Not outside. You don’t swim outside. Not ever.’
9
‘Luke?’
‘Mmm.’
Luke was poring over some papers, sitting at her mother’s desk in the study. They had had supper and had brought the last of the bottle of wine, eked out from lunch, to drink by the fire. Joss was sitting on the rug, feeding twigs to the hungry crackling flames. Outside the curtains a deep penetrating frost had settled over the silent garden.
‘I suppose with a cellar full of wine, we could afford to open another bottle, couldn’t we?’ Beside her sat a box of letters and papers, extricated from beneath some old silk curtains in the bottom drawer of the chest in her bedroom. It was still tied with a piece of string. The label on the box said Bourne and Hollingsworth. It was post marked September 23 1937 and addressed to John Duncan Esq, Belheddon Hall, Essex.
‘We could. But one of us would have to fetch it.’
‘Bags you do.’
He laughed. ‘Bags we both do. It means we’d have to go down there.’
‘Ah.’ She bit her lip.
‘It’s not so scary, Joss. There’s electric light and hundreds and hundreds of wonderful bottles. No rats.’
‘I’m not scared of rats!’ She was scornful.
‘Right then.’ He threw down his pen and stood up. ‘Come on.’
‘Why don’t I fetch the corkscrew from the kitchen?’
‘Joss.’
She gave an awkward shrug. ‘It’s just – Luke, one of my brothers died falling down the cellar stairs.’
He sat down again abruptly. ‘Oh, Joss. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I only found out this morning from Mary Sutton. But last time, when you went down – I felt it. Something strange – something frightening.’
‘Only the smell of cold and damp, Joss.’ His voice was very gentle. ‘Surely there would be nothing frightening about a little boy’s death. Sad, yes. Very sad. But a long time ago. We are here now, to bring happiness to the house.’
‘Do you think so?’