Читать книгу: «The Emerald Comb», страница 4

He watched as she opened the box and gasped at the comb. The jewels sparkled in the candlelight and reflected in her eyes.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, in a whisper. ‘Quite the most beautiful thing I’ve seen. I shall wear it for my portrait, so that when I gaze upon it in future years I will always remember this day. In fact, I want to wear it at once. Ring for Agnes – without a mirror I can’t put it in by myself.’

Charles Holland smiled indulgently, and reached for the bell-pull. A moment later Agnes entered. Her eyes widened as she saw the comb.

‘A pretty piece, Miss Georgia. You are a lucky woman.’ She removed a plain tortoiseshell comb from Georgia’s hair, and replaced it with the emerald one. Her eyes flickered towards Bartholomew, as she tucked away a stray strand of hair. What was in those eyes? Jealousy? Of her mistress’s betrothal, of her comb, of her fiancé? Desire? For the comb, or for him? She was standing behind Georgia, so close to Bartholomew he could feel her warmth, smell her soap. His skin tingled, and he pressed his foot closer still to Georgia’s.

‘There, miss. Looks very nice.’ Agnes curtsied and left the room.

Bartholomew let out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and smiled at Georgia. ‘I am glad you like it, my dear. When we are married I shall take you to visit the man who made it, at the shop in Bond Street. He shall make you a brooch to match it.’

‘Watch it, St Clair. Don’t spend all your money on trinkets for her. Women are all the same, you know. They take your money, your youth and your vigour, and leave you an empty shell. Now then, Peters, where’s the brandy? Georgia, time you left us now. St Clair will be all yours soon – but for now, I want to enjoy his company for myself. You’ll join me for a brandy or two, I take it?’

‘Indeed I will,’ said Bartholomew, holding out his glass for Peters to fill. He turned to Georgia. ‘I shall see you in the drawing room later, my dear.’

Georgia pushed back her chair and stood, trailing her fingers over his shoulder. ‘Don’t keep him too long, Uncle, please.’ She patted her hair comb and left the room.

‘I wasn’t joking about marrying her at the weekend,’ said Holland, as soon as the door closed behind her. ‘Sooner the better. I’ve enjoyed your company, but having that young filly about the place doesn’t suit my lifestyle. She had nowhere else to go, when my brother died. He’d appointed me guardian and trustee of her estate, but frankly, I want shot of the whole responsibility. First time I saw you I thought you’d be suitable for her. An older, more sensible kind of chap than the young pups just after her money. Someone of whom poor Francis would have approved. Glad she accepted you – could have been awkward otherwise, especially with that colt Perry sniffing around. You did well to move quickly. Here’s to a quick wedding and happy marriage.’

He raised his glass, and gulped the brandy down in one swallow. Bartholomew did the same. ‘She’ll be off your hands within a month,’ he promised. ‘I’ll start making the arrangements tomorrow.’

‘Where will you live?’

‘In my Mayfair house, I expect. Or if she wants to stay in Brighton, I’ll take a lease on a house here.’

‘Take her to London. Women like being in the capital.’

He really didn’t know his niece well, thought Bartholomew, remembering how Georgia had told him how much she preferred the country.

‘Will you release Agnes Cutter? To come with Georgia, I mean?’ He hadn’t realised he was going to ask the question until it left his lips.

‘Hmm? Who’s Agnes Cutter?’

‘Georgia’s maid. I – I believe Georgia’s rather fond of her. If you can spare the girl, I will of course take over her employment …’

‘Oh, that one. Of course. Part of the package, you might say. Another brandy?’

It was several more brandies before Bartholomew could take his leave, and adjourn to the drawing room. Holland decided to retire, and after pouring himself a nightcap brandy he went upstairs to bed. Bartholomew went through to the drawing room where Georgia was sitting alone, sewing a sampler. She looked up and smiled when he walked in.

‘At last! I was beginning to wonder if you would ever come.’ She put down her sewing and stood to greet him.

‘I am sorry. Your uncle kept me talking a while. And now he has retired for the evening.’

‘No matter, I only wanted to see you.’

‘And I, you,’ he said, taking a step towards her. She held out her hands to him. He took them and drew her towards him. ‘Georgia, my dear, you have made me so happy by agreeing to be my wife. Let’s get married soon. Next month?’

‘In the summer,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘I’d like a summer wedding, I think.’

He pulled her closer still, wrapping an arm about her waist. ‘I’m not sure I can wait so long, Georgia, darling. Why not a spring wedding?’ His head was swimming after the brandy, and her closeness was intoxicating. He bent his head towards hers, hoping to claim the kiss he’d been denied on the beach, earlier in the day.

But she pushed him away, with a giggle. ‘Bartholomew, I do believe you have had rather too much brandy. I think you had better go upstairs now.’

He considered pulling her back, forcing the kiss on her but a distant, more sober part of his mind told him not to. This was no casual affair, no street-corner hussy. This was the woman he’d chosen to be his wife and bear his children. The woman whose money would save him from a debtor’s prison. He must wait.

He let go of her and bowed. ‘I am sorry, and you are right. Good night. I shall look forward to seeing you in the morning.’

He left the room before he made even more of a fool of himself, and took the stairs two at a time. She was but a girl, he reminded himself. She’d had little experience of men. She was right to rebuff him, in the state he was in. Tomorrow he would not let Holland fill his brandy glass quite so frequently. Tomorrow, if he found himself alone with her, he’d claim his first kiss. If he acted more like a gentleman, she wouldn’t refuse him. He would taste those sweet lips at last, smell her skin, feel that soft body pressed against his. And the wedding would be in spring, whether she liked it or not.

Upstairs he turned towards his bedchamber, which was at the end of a corridor, near the stairs which led on upwards to the servants’ quarters at the top of the house. As he reached his room, a rustle of petticoats made him turn, thinking Georgia had perhaps followed him up. But it was Agnes. She was carrying the green gown Georgia had torn on the beach. She stopped beside him.

‘Is everything all right, sir? Are you in need of anything, anything at all?’ There was a glint in her eye.

‘I am quite all right, thank you,’ he replied, stumbling slightly as he reached for his doorknob. She caught hold of his elbow to steady him. A shudder jolted through him at her touch.

‘I think not,’ she said. ‘Wait, I will fetch you something to clear your head.’ She opened the door to the servants’ stairs and began to ascend.

Without really knowing what he was doing, Bartholomew followed. She glanced back, with an expression of mild surprise on her face which was quickly replaced by a half-smile. There was, if he was not mistaken, an invitation in that smile. He followed her to her room in the attic. She threw the dress she’d been carrying onto the narrow wooden bed, and began searching through a chest of medicine bottles which stood under the small window.

She chattered as she rooted through the box. ‘My mother is a herbalist. She taught me all the old remedies. And, sir, believe me, they do work.’

At last she found the potion she’d been looking for and turned back to him.

‘Here. This will clear your mind a little, and stop your headache in the morning.’ As he took the bottle his fingers brushed hers, sending a sudden shock up his arm.

She was looking directly at him, that half-smile at the corners of her mouth, her eyes wide and bright. She felt it too, he was sure. She’d felt that jolt – she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

He put the bottle down on the washstand, and stepped forward. She didn’t move. He put a hand to her cheek, and brushed it gently with his thumb. She turned her face towards his hand, nuzzling against it, and took his thumb in her mouth. All the while her eyes were on his.

He could stand it no longer. He pulled her roughly towards him and covered her mouth with his, kissing her fast and furious. She kissed him back, and snaked her hands around his back, under his jacket. He could feel the thrilling warmth of them through his shirt. He kissed her face, her neck, her throat where the coarse wool of her dress met her soft, soap-scented skin. He was mad with desire for her and pushed her backwards, towards her bed. She lay down, crushing Georgia’s gown, and drew him down on top of her. He tugged up her skirts as she reached for his trouser fastenings, and a minute later he was inside her, grunting and panting, thinking of nothing but the moment they were in, and her.

My dear Barty, it is at this point in my narrative that you will no doubt have begun to despise me. How could I, on the very day of proposing marriage to one woman, take another to bed? My defence, for what it’s worth, is merely that I was intoxicated by Agnes. When I was with her, with or without a gut full of brandy, I could not think clearly. I was at the mercy of my lustful feelings for her. She knew, I believe, that she had this hold over me. And she was as besotted by me at that time as I was by her, as she later confessed to me.

You might want, having read this far, to throw this manuscript down in disgust, and hear no more of your father’s indiscretions. But, my dear son, bear with me please, for you must know the truth. Steel yourself, Barty, for there is worse, far worse, to come. And some of it, I must write as though Agnes herself is telling the story. She was loyal to me, in those days, and told me everything, or at least, almost everything, that passed in private between her and Georgia.

Chapter 6
Hampshire, April 2013

The day we moved into Kingsley House was one of those bright blue April days, when the air is rich with birdsong, the sun shines with golden promise, and the hedgerows explode with blossom. The newly unfurled leaves on the huge beech tree were an electric lime green, and the grass, in its first growth since the winter, rivalled them in intensity of colour. It almost made your eyes hurt to look out at the day.

The removal men whistled as they carried our furniture and cartons into the house. Lewis and Lauren were taking huge delight directing them – ‘Lounge!’, ‘My bedroom at the top!’, ‘Kitchen!’ – according to what was scrawled on the boxes in marker pen.

‘Can you put my curtains up, Mum?’ Lauren called down the stairs.

‘Dad, when are you going to plug in the telly? Deadly Sixty’s on, and I don’t want to miss it. They’re doing tarantulas this week.’ Lewis was apparently bored of directing removal men.

‘Katie, any sign of the box with the kettle in? I could so do with a cuppa,’ Simon said, as he staggered past me carrying two boxes at once.

‘Mind your back! Why are you shifting boxes anyway, aren’t we paying blokes to carry them in?’ I said.

‘These got put in the living room but they’re books, should be in the study,’ he said. ‘They’ll go on those big built-in shelves in there. Fabulous piece of carpentry, that. Wonder how old it is?’

I smiled. It was one of my favourite features in the house too. And if Simon was wondering about the age of it, it’d surely only be a matter of time before he started wondering about the people who used to live here … and then I’d be able to spend many happy hours filling him in. I still hadn’t mentioned the fact my ancestors had lived here.

‘I reckon it’s mid-Victorian, possibly even earlier,’ I said. ‘I’ve found the kettle but we’ve no milk or teabags. Don’t suppose you’ve come across my laptop and genealogy research notes?’

‘Look in the fridge,’ he grunted, as he passed me again with another box marked BOOKS. They were mostly mine.

‘What?’ I went out to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Bless the Delameres, they’d left us a pint of milk, a plastic bag with a dozen teabags in, a bottle of orange squash and a packet of chocolate digestives. I pulled the kettle out of a box and turned on the kitchen tap to fill it. The water ran brown.

‘Hmph. Looks like we’ve inherited rusty iron piping,’ said Simon, looking over my shoulder.

I guessed the house would need new plumbing, then. I shrugged. It’s what you have to expect when buying an old house. I ran the tap for a minute until it cleared, filled the kettle, then searched for somewhere to plug it in. There was a single socket at worktop height, and a double beneath the table. When we refitted the kitchen we’d have to rewire and add plenty more sockets.

It wasn’t long before the van was unloaded, the removal men tipped and gone, and we were left amid a sea of cardboard boxes. Thank goodness this was such a large house: there was still space to move around the boxes and shift furniture. We made the kids’ rooms habitable then headed into the village centre for an evening meal at the local pub, the White Hart. It was just a five-minute walk up the lane. The pavement was narrow and I was thankful Thomas no longer needed to sit in a pushchair.

‘Great idea, this,’ said Simon, as he sat down with his pint. ‘I’d thought we’d get a takeaway but it’s so nice to escape the chaos for a couple of hours.’

‘Agreed. Well, here’s to our new life in North Kingsley!’ I raised my glass of Pinot Grigio and clinked it against his Guinness. Lauren and Lewis picked up their glasses of Coke and clinked too, while Thomas put his thumb in his mouth and cuddled up beside me. Although he was four, he was still very much our baby and tended to act it, especially when he was tired.

I gave him a hug. ‘Aw, as soon as we’ve had dinner we’ll go home and I’ll read you a story and put you to bed, sweetie.’

‘Our proper home?’ He gazed up at me with wide, worried eyes.

‘Our new home. You’ve got your own lovely bedroom now. No more sharing with Lewis.’

Wrong thing to say. He still looked worried and his lower lip began to tremble. ‘I don’t want to sleep on my own. That house is scary. There might be ghosts.’

‘You can sleep in my room tonight,’ said Lewis. ‘Can’t he, Mum? Just till we get used to the new house.’

I smiled at my lovely thoughtful eleven-year-old. ‘Yes, of course he can. It’ll be strange for all of us tonight. But we’ll feel better in the morning when we’re not so tired.’

We’d sold our Southampton house to a buy-to-let investor, who’d made us an offer during the twins’ birthday party back in February; we’d negotiated the sale price while a horde of pre-teens ran riot having a balloon fight around us. There was no chain, so we’d been able to move on a day which suited us. The survey on Kingsley House had been worrying at first glance, but all it said when you boiled it down was that the house was old, and had the kind of problems you’d associate with old houses. Simon dismissed it as a waste of money, declaring he could have written it himself without ever having seen the house. Our removal company had packed for us earlier in the week, and had turned up at eight a.m. to load up the van. It had been a very long day. No wonder poor Thomas was so tired and tearful.

The food arrived, and we all tucked in to battered cod and chips, burgers for the kids, followed by steaming treacle pudding and custard. Perfect comfort food, and it hit the spot quickly. Soon the children were laughing together; Lauren was telling whispered stories about the grizzled old men who were sitting on bar stools clutching pints of real ale, making Thomas giggle uncontrollably. It was good to hear.

‘Looks like a pretty old pub, this one,’ said Simon, gazing around at the low beamed ceiling, dark wood panelling and stone window seats.

‘I like it, it’s got character.’ I wondered whether Bartholomew or his father William had ever sat in this pub. Probably not, they’d been too high up the social scale to drink in the local hostelry. But Barty, at least in his later years, had certainly frequented this place. Vera Delamere had told me as much, recalling the village gossip about him.

Across the room, screwed to a wall beside the bar, was an old map. I got up to go and inspect it. It showed the village as it was in 1852. It was much smaller then: the railway had only just reached North Kingsley and none of the housing estates had been built. I picked out the high street, with the White Hart pub clearly marked. Following the road out of the village centre I found our house, surrounded then by outbuildings and stables, with far more land than I’d imagined.

‘Come and look at this,’ I called to Simon.

He came over, with the remains of his pint, and peered at the map. ‘Wow, is that our house? Look at all the land it had then. Shame it’s all been sold off. I wouldn’t have minded a huge garden. Could have bought a ride-on mower.’ He put on a wistful expression. ‘Always wanted a ride-on mower, you know. Ah well, next house …’

I gave him a gentle thump on the arm. ‘I’m not moving again, Simon. Well, not until it’s time to downsize, like the Delameres. This is our forever home, as the estate agents put it.’

Simon gulped down the last of his beer. ‘Nothing’s forever, Katie, but right now I’m certainly not in a hurry to move again. Well, I think we’d better get young Thomas to bed before he implodes. Good of Lewis to let him share his room for tonight.’

‘I suspect Lewis wants the company too,’ I said.

We gathered up children, coats and Nintendos, and set off to walk the couple of hundred yards to our house. Simon hoiked Thomas onto his back, and the other two kids skipped ahead. I wondered how long it would take for them to get to sleep tonight – they were still buzzing with excitement about their new home.

‘Hey, look,’ said Simon, pointing to a small turning. ‘Stables Close. That’s where the stables which once belonged to our house must have stood.’

‘Did we once have stables, Dad? Does that mean I can have a pony?’ Lauren asked.

‘Only if you go back in time, love,’ Simon said.

Lewis grinned. ‘That would be cool, going back to the olden days.’

We reached the front door. I pulled out my key, slotted it into the lock and turned it. It gave the satisfying click of a well-oiled mechanism, and the door swung open with a low creak. I flicked the hall light switch on, and sighed with happiness.

Simon grinned at me as he pushed past and climbed the stairs, Thomas still clinging to his back. ‘Good to be home, eh, Katie?’

Oh yes. So very good to be home. To think this wonderful old house, with all its layers of history, some of it my family’s history, was now ours. I offered up a silent promise to the ghosts of residents past that we’d respect their memory and the house as we brought it back to life.

The twins started their new school the next day, and Simon was back at work. I dropped Lewis and Lauren off at the local primary they would attend for just one term before moving on to the comprehensive, then drove home with Thomas and began the mammoth task of unpacking. Thomas was surprisingly helpful; so were the twins when they came home buzzing about their new school. We made good progress, not helped at all by Simon returning home late, tired and grumpy.

‘Christ, Katie, there’s boxes and paper everywhere! Could you not have flattened them as you went along, or put them out in the garage? I can barely move in this hallway.’ He kicked an empty box to make his point. It knocked against a small table, sending the telephone tumbling to the floor.

‘For goodness sake, Simon!’ I bent to pick up the phone and put it back in its base unit. ‘I’ve been busy all day unpacking. Kitchen’s done, so are the bedrooms.’

‘Well, that’s something, I suppose. If we can just get these boxes out of the way so we can move around the house …’

‘Feel free. I’m knackered, and am doing nothing more tonight.’ I glared at him, daring him to suggest I do it now. ‘And why are you so late home anyway? I was hoping you’d get back a bit earlier today, so you could help. It’s gone eight, already.’

‘I had a five o’clock meeting. And it’s still an hour on the train, plus twenty minutes either side. What’s for dinner?’

‘We had lasagne and chips. There’s some lasagne left, I could microwave it for you.’

‘Reheated pasta – yuk. After my long day in the office.’

‘Either that or a sandwich. Which you can make yourself.’ I turned on my heel and went upstairs before he could see the tears in my eyes. I was just tired, I knew. But why had he agreed to work late on the first day in our new house?

‘Why’s Dad cross?’ asked Lewis as I got to the top of the stairs.

‘He’s tired. So am I. And it’s your bed time.’

‘All right, sorry, Mum. I was just coming down to tell you Thomas is crying.’

I’d spent an hour reading him stories and cuddling him to sleep earlier, so this wasn’t welcome news. I sighed and went in to him.

‘What’s up, sweetheart?’ I said, crouching down on the floor beside his makeshift bed.

‘Lewis is being too noisy. I can’t sleep.’

I kissed his forehead. ‘I’ll tell him to be quiet. He’s coming to bed now anyway.’

‘And I can’t find White Ted.’

I could sympathise with that. My laptop and folders were still unaccounted for. White Ted was probably in the still-sealed box of cuddly toys in a corner of Thomas’s room, but I really didn’t feel up to rummaging through it right now. But if I didn’t, who would?

‘I’ll find him. You snuggle down now and I’ll be back with him soon.’ My knees groaned as I stood up and crossed the landing to Thomas’s room. Ripping open the box I up-ended it in the middle of the floor. It could be sorted out tomorrow. Thankfully White Ted turned up among the assorted cuddlies, and I picked him up gratefully.

Simon appeared at the doorway. ‘Sheesh, is that the way you unpack? No wonder the house is such a tip.’ He grinned – it was clearly meant to be a joke, but I wasn’t in the mood. I glared at him.

‘Aw, love, let’s not argue. Sorry I was narky when I came in,’ he said, crossing the room to give me a hug. I leaned against him for a moment, enjoying the comfort but not quite wanting to forgive him yet, then went to give White Ted to Thomas.

On Saturday, after homework and an exploratory walk with me around the village, the children spent the afternoon reorganising and playing in their rooms while I did some housework. Simon had gone to visit his mother in the Southbourne nursing home where she now lived.

‘How was your mum?’ I asked Simon when he returned home in the early evening.

He sighed, and sat down heavily at the kitchen table. Recognising the signs of a tough day, I opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Pinot Grigio I’d put in there to chill, ready for this moment. I poured him a generous glass. The kids were happily snuggled up in the sitting room, watching a Disney DVD.

‘Thanks, love.’ He took a swig, then sat, glass held in both hands, staring at a spot on the table. I waited. It had been six months since I last saw Veronica, and if I was being honest, I’d say I wouldn’t mind if I never saw her again. We hadn’t taken the children to see her for nearly a year. It’s not that we didn’t love her – it’s just that visiting her had become so stressful and upsetting for all involved.

‘Mum was, I guess, worse than last time.’ Simon took another gulp of his wine. I sat down beside him, ready to listen, if he wanted to talk about it. He didn’t always.

‘Did she know you?’

‘Sort of. She thought I was Dad. Funnily enough, that’s easier than when she thinks I’m a complete stranger. At least I can talk to her then, without her calling the nursing staff to get me ejected from her room.’

I rubbed his shoulder in sympathy, but he shrugged my hand away.

‘She talked about her younger days. When she’d first met Dad, and they played at the same tennis club. How he’d asked to walk her home, and she’d said yes, then led him the long way round so as to spend more time in his company.’ Simon smiled. ‘Luckily I knew that story – it was one they always told – so I was able to chip in at the right moments. We had a bit of a laugh about it.’

‘Well, that was nice, at least.’ God, it must be so hard. Simon lost his father to cancer twelve years ago, and now he was losing his mother to dementia. All that was left of her was these occasional snippets of old memories, washed up like flotsam. We’d had to move her into a nursing home eighteen months earlier, when she’d stopped letting her carers into her home, thinking they’d come to rob her. A year ago she stopped recognising me and the children. Five months ago she didn’t know who Simon was, and he’d come home that day and sobbed on my shoulder like a little boy.

He still visited her every fortnight, making the long drive down to the Dorset coast, spending ten minutes or three hours with her depending on whether his presence upset her or not. We’d explained her illness to the older children, who’d taken it in their stride, the way children do. Little Thomas didn’t even remember her when we showed him a photo of himself as a baby, sitting on her lap. Simon had pressed his lips together and turned his face away. The idea that our youngest would grow up knowing only one set of grandparents pained him, I knew.

He refilled his wine glass, took a sip, then a deep breath, and looked at me. ‘She also talked about how she’d never been able to have children, how she and Dad decided on adoption. And about the day they collected me from the children’s home. She still thought I was Dad, and went through the whole story, saying do you remember, Peter? do you remember? And of course I do remember it, but from an entirely different point of view.’

‘But you’ve heard her talk about that day before, love,’ I said.

‘Yes, but on those occasions she knew I was there. Today she thought I was Dad, and was talking as though I, Simon, her adopted son, wasn’t present.’

I scanned Simon’s face for clues as to what she’d said, how he’d taken it. He looked drawn, the way he always looks after visiting Veronica. But was he more upset by her stories this time? Had she said something distressing? Before she was ill she’d always talked about that day with warmth and affection. The chubby blond four-year-old running full pelt into the hallway of the children’s home in pursuit of the resident cat, and stopping abruptly when he saw her and Peter standing there in their coats and hats. His formal greeting, parroting what he’d been taught: Good afternoon, Mr and Mrs Smiff. His shy smile when Veronica told him he could now call her Mummy, and Peter, Daddy. The wondrous moment when he first slid his warm, sticky hand into hers, as they led him outside to their car and his new life.

‘What did she say that was different?’ I asked, as gently as if he was still that shy little four-year-old.

‘She spoke about her fears that it wouldn’t work out, that I might change their relationship and not for the better, that despite all the visits they’d had with me before it became official she might find it all too much and have to send me back. I never heard her say anything like that before. I’d always grown up being told that I was special because they chose me. That their life wasn’t complete until I joined the family.’

He took another gulp of his wine. His eyes sparkled. My big strong rugby-playing husband, close to tears. We might have had our ups and downs lately, but seeing him like this broke my heart.

‘Katie, it hurt, you know? To hear that she’d thought they might have to send me back. Even now, after all these years.’

‘She didn’t know what she was saying.’

‘She did. She just didn’t know who she was saying it to.’

I rubbed his shoulder. I didn’t know what I could say to comfort him. ‘Perhaps you should stop visiting her. It wouldn’t hurt her, she wouldn’t even realise anything had changed.’

‘It’s my duty. She’s got no one else.’

‘But it just upsets you. I hate to see you like this. And it’s not even as if she’s your real m—’

Whoops. Wrong thing to say, or nearly say. Simon glared at me. ‘She’s my mum, Katie. She, and no one else.’ He knocked back the rest of his wine and stood up decisively. ‘Well. Enough of that. Where are our gorgeous children?’

‘Sitting room, watching Jungle Book.’

‘Great, I love that film! Mind if I join them while you’re making dinner?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but sashayed off across the hallway, singing something about the bare necessities of life. I heard Thomas squeal ‘Daddy, Daddy!’, ticklish giggles from Lauren, and the clap of a high-five, ‘Yo, Dad!’ from Lewis.

The next day, Sunday, was grey and rainy. There was no hope of going out anywhere, so we decided to get on with the unpacking. There were still piles of boxes in the corners of rooms, waiting to be sorted out. Some boxes contained things like photo albums, outgrown toys and old school books. Those would go in the loft above Lauren’s room as soon as we’d installed a loft ladder. That was the only part of the house we’d not yet explored. The hatch was sealed shut and Simon didn’t want to open it up yet. ‘Time enough,’ he’d said. ‘Plenty to sort out down here before we venture up there. Right then, what shall we tackle today?’

‘The study,’ I said. ‘Let’s unpack the books and files, and fill up those shelves. I’ll give them a dust and polish first while you get the kids settled doing something.’ I hoped my family tree research folders would turn up somewhere among the books.