Late spring, bluebells an indigo wash under the trees, in places so intense it hurt. An acid-green light filtered through the canopy of new beech leaves. It made Naomi thirsty. Her old Land Rover nudged forward at walking pace, sinking into the ruts, clambering over roots.
Always further than she thought, this trek through the woods. One more gate than expected. Each one closed today. Stop, get out, breathe in bluebells, almost peppery, open gate, drive through, get out again and close gate. Each time she went through the ritual, she felt her pace slowing, threshold by threshold.
As she came out of the wood the light changed, rinsed clear to the far horizon. There it was. Scoop of valley like a glass brimming with Atlantic blue, and that wonky roofline nestling under the towering shoulder of the cliff. She turned off the ignition and yanked on the handbrake. She had to walk.
She stood at the top of the steep track, breathing seaweed air, listening to the silence. Just the tick of the cooling engine, the drone of a bee in the gorse. There were the two chimneys and the window she’d used to escape. More than twenty years ago. A love-hate relationship if ever there was one, a volatile see-saw. She’d stayed in it far too long. Be that as it may, it was generous of him to make the place over to her. Unexpectedly generous. She’d been in a fever of anticipation ever since she got the solicitor’s letter. Typical Wilson, only managing to be kind from beyond the grave.
The breakers rolled in, hypnotic. Every so often one towered over the others and took her breath away, along with all sense of time or tiredness. Eventually, shouldering her bag, she followed the cobbled path to the door of the cottage and fitted the huge iron key into the lock.
As she tried to turn it, a voice called from inside, ‘I don’t know who the hell you are, but you can bugger off out of here.’
Naomi froze. The place was supposed to be empty. What on earth was going on? And why did that voice seem alien and yet faintly familiar? Why did she not feel afraid? The door was already unlocked. No wonder the key wouldn’t turn. She dropped it into her pocket and lifted the metal ring. Pull and twist, that familiar action. The door swung half open.
‘I thought I said, bugger off.’
That voice again. Gravelly. Harsh. Bluffing. The memory teased and vanished. She stepped inside, into the dimly lit passage.
He was standing in the kitchen doorway against the light from the window. But it was enough. Memories slotted into place. Wilson’s brother.
‘Hell’s teeth! It’s Naomi! What the devil are you doing here?’ He stepped back, steadying himself against the table – still that scrubbed pine top with blue paint peeling off the legs.
The light fell across his face. Heavy-framed glasses, ginger moustache. He’d had a beard back then. A strange jutting affair, the colour of carrots. Barbarossa, they used to call him. Yes, it was Gordon, all right.
‘I’m taking possession, Gordon. That’s what I’m doing here.’
‘The hell you’re not. I live here. It’s my place now.’
‘Wilson left it to me. He left it to me in his will.’
‘The hell he did not! At least…’
She took a breath. ‘We’ll see about that. But meanwhile, I need a wee. You’re not going to bar the way, I hope.’
He gestured graciously. ‘Be my guest.’
She sat on the toilet, head in hands. His guest! The devious toad. Bad memories flooded in. Wilson’s neediness, Gordon’s saccharine hostility. Days of barbed comments and innuendo flaring eventually into a bitter row. After the first lyrical months of love, Wilson had been unpredictable, one day almost worshipping her, the next manipulative, punitive. But when they were alone it had worked, even if it felt like walking on eggshells. When Gordon visited, he needled and provoked, looked out for cracked eggs and made sure they got broken.
So what had gone wrong? Why was he here? She ran her hands under the tap and dried them on her trousers, avoiding the grubby towel.
‘Scotch?’ Gordon said when she emerged.
‘For old times’ sake? Good for shock.’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing for me. I just want to know why you’re here.’
‘I’m guessing you didn’t wait for the second letter.’
‘Second letter?’ She paced to the window and looked out on the path that led to the waterfall. Second letter. Doubt crept in, knotting her stomach. That phrase at the end of her letter. Further information to follow. Await our instructions before taking action. Something like that. She’d assumed it was lawyer-speak for nothing much.
‘The second letter containing the small print,’ Gordon said.
She paced back to the table, staring at him.
He gulped his whisky. ‘They said I might get a visit.’
She escaped back to the window.
‘For Christ’s sake sit down. You’re making me twitch.’ Another gulp. ‘Look. We’d better have a civil conversation.’
She swallowed a retort and sat down. ‘What do you mean, they said you’d get a visitor? And what small print?’
‘A visit from the other beneficiary. But you see, I wasn’t expecting you. I’m in shock too. You see, he always said you loved this place more than him. So I knew he wouldn’t leave it to you. Wouldn’t give you the satisfaction. I was expecting one of his other women. Penelope, for instance. Or the dreaded Deirdre. But I was wrong.’
He was appraising her across the table. That teasing look.
‘You’ve worn well, Naomi. The years have been kind to you.’
She wasn’t rising to that one. The years, she noticed, had not been kind to him. Bags under the eyes, the whites turning sepia. She repeated her question. ‘What small print?’
‘The bastard. He’s playing us off against each other.’
She swallowed her impatience. ‘But he couldn’t leave it to both of us. Could he?’
‘That’s in the small print. You own it, but I have lifetime tenancy. The right to live here until I die. He giveth with one hand and taketh away with the other. Poor Naomi. I feel quite sorry for you. He gives you your dream. I bet you were thinking how generous he was. And then he turns it neatly into a nightmare. For me too. Clever really. You have to hand it to him.’ He smiled across at her and chuckled.
Jill Treseder was born in Hampshire and lived all her childhood in sight of the sea on the
Solent and in Devon, Cornwall and West Wales. She now lives in Devon overlooking the River Dart.
After graduating from Bristol with a degree in German, Jill followed careers in social work, management development and social research, obtaining a PhD from the School of Management at the University of Bath along the way.
Since 2006 she has finally been able to focus on writing fiction, and has published five full length novels and two novellas.
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