House of Echoes

Dot Gower’s eyes were, Joss suddenly discovered, as piercing as her husband’s. Disconcerted by the woman’s stare she subsided back into her chair.

‘Poor Laura.’ Dot turned after a moment back to her teapot. ‘She would have been so proud of you, my dear. You are very beautiful.’

Joss felt suddenly very uncomfortable. ‘Thank you. What was she like?’

‘Middle height; slim; grey hair, even when she was comparatively young; grey eyes.’ Edgar Gower appraised Joss once more. ‘You don’t have her eyes – or Philip’s. But you do have her build, and I should imagine her hair was like yours once. She was kind, intelligent, humorous – but the deaths of the boys – she never got over that and once Philip had gone …’ He sighed as he reached out to take his tea cup. ‘Thank you, my dear. Jocelyn, please. For your own sake, forget Belheddon. They have all gone. There is nothing there for you.’

‘Edgar!’ Dot straightened from the tray and turned on her husband, her face sharp. ‘You promised!’

‘Dot. No!’

They were locked for a moment in some intense silent conflict which Joss didn’t understand. The atmosphere in the room had become tense. Abruptly Edgar slammed down his cup, slopping tea into the saucer and stood up. He strode over to the fireplace. ‘Think, Dot. Think what you are saying …’

‘Excuse me,’ Joss said at last. ‘Please. What are you talking about? If this is something to do with me, I think I should know about it.’

‘Yes it is.’ Dot’s voice was very firm. ‘Edgar made your mother a solemn promise before she left England and he has to keep it.’

Edgar’s face was working furiously, reflecting some inner battle as yet unresolved. ‘I promised, but nothing but unhappiness will come of it.’

‘Come of what?’ Joss stood up. ‘Please. I obviously have a right to know.’ She was growing afraid. Suddenly she didn’t want to know, but it was too late.

Edgar took a deep breath. ‘Very well. You are right. I have to abide by Laura’s wishes.’ He sighed again and then, straightening his shoulders, walked back to his desk. ‘In fact, there is nothing very much that I can tell you myself, but I promised her that should you ever come back to Belheddon I would see to it that you were given the address of her solicitors in London. I suspect she has left you something in her will; I know she wrote you a letter the day you were legally adopted. She gave it to John Cornish, her lawyer.’ He reached into a bottom drawer of his desk and after a moment or two riffling through the papers produced a card. He pushed it across the desk towards her.

‘But why didn’t you want me to know about it?’ Joss looked at him in confusion. ‘Why did you feel I shouldn’t know?’ A jolt of excitement had shot through her. She clutched the card tightly. A glance had shown her it was a large firm of solicitors in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

‘Belheddon Hall is an unhappy house, my dear, that’s why. The past is the past. I feel it should be allowed to rest. Your mother felt that way too. That is why she wanted you to have a fresh start.’

‘Then why did she write to me?’

‘I suspect to comfort herself.’

Joss looked down at the card. ‘Can I come and see you again after I have seen the solicitors?’

For a moment she thought he was going to shake his head. A shadow had crossed his face, and something else. Fear. She stared at him aghast, but as quickly as it had appeared the expression had gone. He gave her a grave smile. ‘You may come whenever you wish, my dear. Dot and I will help you in every way we can.’

It was not until she was out in the rapidly falling dusk and retracing her steps towards the car that she thought again about that remark and wondered what exactly he had meant. Why should she need help – help was the word he had used – and why was he afraid?

3 (#ulink_ae5b3bd6-a05c-5900-82ca-f7e8edff5fb4)

It was very late before she drove at last into the narrow mews in Kensington and backed the car into an impossibly small space near the house. Wearily she climbed out and reached for her front door keys.

The light was still on in the kitchen at the back. Luke was sitting wedged into the corner behind the small table, staring down at a cup of cold coffee. His tall frame and broad shoulders dwarfed the narrow room; his elbows, spread over a scattering of papers, supported his chin as though he could scarcely lift his head. His normally ruddy complexion was pale.

‘Hi, darling!’ She bent and kissed him on the top of the ruffled dark hair. ‘I’m sorry it’s so late. I had to go all the way up to Aldeburgh. Is Tom asleep?’ She was aching to go up and cuddle the little boy.

He nodded. ‘Hours ago. How did it go?’

At last noticing his drawn, tired face her bubbling excitement died. ‘Luke? What is it? What’s wrong?’ She slid onto the stool next to him and reached out to touch his hand.

He shook his head slowly. ‘Joss, I don’t know how to tell you. Henderson and Grant is no more.’

She stared at him in shock. ‘But Barry said –’

‘Barry has done a bunk, Joss. And he’s taken all the money. I thought he was my friend. I thought our partnership was secure. I was wrong. Wrong!’ He slammed the table suddenly with his fist. ‘I went to the bank and the account had been emptied. I’ve been with accountants all day and the police. Your sister came and looked after Tom. I didn’t know what to do.’ He ran his fingers through his dishevelled hair and it dawned on Joss that he was near to tears.

‘Oh, Luke –’

‘We’re going to lose the house, Joss.’ He blundered to his feet, sending the stool on which he was sitting sliding across the tiles. Wrenching open the back door which led into their pocket handkerchief sized garden he stepped out onto the dark terrace and stared upwards towards the sky.

Joss hadn’t moved. All thoughts of her day had vanished. She was staring at the pale terracotta tiles on the wall above the worktop. It had taken her eighteen months to save up for those tiles, to find them and get someone to put them up for her. It had at long last finished the kitchen, the dream kitchen of their first home.

‘Joss.’ Luke was standing in the doorway. ‘I’m sorry.’

She rose to her feet and went to him, resting her head on his chest as he folded his arms around her. He smelled comfortably of Luke – a mixture of engine oil and aftershave and old wool and – Luke. She snuggled against him, drawing strength from just being near him. ‘We’ll think of something,’ she murmured into his jersey. ‘We’ll manage.’

He clutched her even tighter. ‘Will we?’

‘I’ll go back to teaching. That will tide us over. Especially if Lyn will look after Tom. I’m lucky to have a sister who likes babies. She gets on with him so well …’ her voice trailed away.

She had hated teaching towards the end; loathed it, feeling frustrated and confined by the syllabus, not enjoying the challenge of the kids any more. She had been in the wrong job; she knew that, though she was good at it; very good. She was not a born teacher, she was an academic and a romantic. The two did not go well together. Her pregnancy had been a godsend – unplanned, unexpected – and unbelievably, a joy and one of its greatest good points had been the fact that she could finish with teaching forever. She had resigned at the end of the spring term, resisted the blandishments of David Tregarron, the head of department, to change her mind and thrown herself into the joys of approaching motherhood. She sighed. There was a chance the school could have her back. She had only recently heard that her replacement was already leaving. But even if that didn’t happen they would certainly give her a good reference. The trouble was she didn’t want to teach any more. She wanted to look after Tom.

Taking a deep breath she stood back. The comforting normality of filling the kettle and plugging it in gave her time to gather her wits a little. ‘Hot drink and then bed. Neither of us is any good at thinking when we’re tired,’ she said firmly. ‘Tomorrow we will make a plan.’

‘Bless you, Joss.’ He hugged her quickly. Then guiltily he remembered where she had been. ‘So, tell me what happened. How did you get on? Did you find your mother?’

She shook her head, spooning the coffee into the mugs. ‘She died several years ago. The house is empty. I don’t think there is any family left.’

‘Oh, Joss –’

‘It doesn’t matter, Luke. I’ve found out about them. She was unhappy and ill and her husband had died. That was why she gave me away. And,’ suddenly she brightened, ‘apparently she left me a letter. There is a firm of solicitors I’ve got to contact. Who knows,’ she laughed suddenly. ‘Perhaps she has left me a fortune.’

‘Mrs Grant?’ John Cornish appeared at the door of his office and ushered her inside. ‘Forgive me for keeping you waiting.’ He waved her towards a chair and sat down himself at his desk. A slim plastic file lay on the blotter in front of him. He drew it towards him and then glanced up at her. A man in his early sixties, his dark suit and austere manner belied the kindness in his gentle face. ‘You brought your birth and adoption certificates and your wedding certificate? I’m sorry. It’s a formality –’

She nodded and pulled them out of her shoulder bag.

‘And you got my name from Edgar Gower?’

Joss nodded again.

Cornish shook his head. ‘I must say, I have always wondered if you would get in touch. There were only two years to go, you know.’

‘Two years?’ Joss sat tensely on the edge of the chair, her fingers knotted into the soft leather of her bag.

He nodded. ‘It’s a strange story. May I give you some coffee before I start?’ He gestured towards a tray already standing on the table by the wall.

‘Please.’ She needed coffee. Her mouth was very dry.

When they were both served John Cornish resumed his seat and sat back in his chair. He did not touch either the file on his desk or the envelope of certificates she had given him.