Chapter 2

‘Let’s hope it doesn’t go out too often.’ Mark straightens up, regards the kitchen stove. ‘You’ll need to be able to light it in case it happens again while I’m away.’

‘Show me tomorrow. Come and relax while we can. I bet we haven’t heard the last from the twins tonight.’

I tuck my feet beneath me on Mum’s sofa, my sketch pad on my knees. It seems more like a week than a few hours since we left London. Everyone’s tired, tempers frayed.

‘Bring the bottle of wine with you. I’ve sketched out a few ideas for a kitchen refurb.’

The shriek is sharp and primeval, we both start and turn to the black window, nothing but darkness. I need to fix up blinds as soon as possible.

‘What the hell was that? A fox?’ Mark asks as he crosses the kitchen and slumps onto the sofa beside me. ‘They’re a hell of a lot louder out here than in the city. It’s why people in the sticks have dogs.’ Mark’s smile is flat as he tops up our wine glasses.

‘We’ve enough on our plates right now without adding a dog into the mix,’ I say.

Again, I wonder why he was so determined to come here. Every other place we’d looked at was in London. Urban and familiar. Why the complete change of plan? I’d wickedly wondered if he wanted a bit of space between him and his mother. Jennifer’s been about a lot since his father died.

‘Any luck?’ Mark asks, peering into the battered old shoebox on the floor. I’d discovered it under the kitchen sink, full of odds and sods of old coins, washers and keys.

‘I’ll try these ones when we go up to bed,’ I reply, nodding to a couple of keys I’d put to one side on the arm of the sofa. ‘See if they fit.’

I want the bedroom with the smelly pink carpet locked. The catch is so worn the slightest draught cutting along the landing reopens it. Quite what happened earlier, when I’d got stuck in there, I don’t know. Stupid it alarmed me. In the long term, I’ll redecorate it for Mark and me, fix the catch. It’s by far the largest, brightest bedroom. Until then, I’ll feel more comfortable if we lock it.

Mark looks at the keys and pulls a face. ‘They don’t look too promising, but worth a try. You’re picking up the attic keys from Lovett and Lyle’s on Monday, aren’t you?’

Mark was furious when we arrived to find a note from Mr Whittle, the estate agent, on the stove top saying the attic key was at the solicitor’s office for collection. Closed at weekends, it was either wait until Monday or break the attic door down.

‘Mrs Havers has a bloody nerve keeping the key after completion, as if it wasn’t bad enough with the attic off limits when we were buying the place. The surveyor reckons there’s nothing but junk up there anyway.’

‘It’ll be an icebreaker at my interview, if nothing else,’ I say, trying to steer Mark away from the topic that’s irritated him all summer.

‘Lovett and Lyle’s might be just what you need, Kate.’

I resigned my London post months ago, shortly after I was ill. I’ve not regretted the decision for a second. When Mr Lovett said his firm needed a part-time solicitor working from the Weldon office, it seemed too good to pass up.

‘I’ll take a look and see what I think.’

I miss my financial independence, it sticks in my throat each time I’ve asked for money, although Mark’s never once questioned or refused. A job would give me a routine, show I really am on the mend.

‘I’ll get on with other things to keep busy: find an electrician, order a skip, contact local builders to sort out quotes for the essential work.’

‘Leave it for now. I’ll sort it out next weekend with you,’ Mark says.

I can’t help but feel irritated. When we renovated our London home we’d worked on it jointly every free moment we had, but I’d been the one to book tradesmen, source and order materials, project-manage. Haverscroft is on a different scale, but I’m not an invalid. Something Mark keeps forgetting.

‘Take a breath, Kate. Don’t go charging in and knock yourself back again.’ He’s looking at my sketch pad, doodles of what we might do to the kitchen.

‘I won’t,’ I say, hearing my voice rise a notch. ‘It’s pointless decorating until the basics are done.’

‘Let the money settle down. We’ve only just completed. I need to clear the bills, sort things out.’

Mark sips his wine, stares straight ahead at the stove. He’s not wanting a discussion on any of this right now. I shift across the sofa towards him.

‘You know me, I have to be doing something.’

‘My little control freak returns,’ he says, putting an arm around my shoulders.

We’re easier together again, a cuddle on the sofa isn’t awkward as it once was. If we put the last few months behind us I could even perhaps grow to like this strange old house.

‘Mummy!’

Running footsteps, the twins on the landing.

‘Mum!’

Mark groans. ‘Bloody kids! Will they ever settle down?’ He hauls himself from the sofa.

‘What did we really expect the first night here?’ I say.

Mark takes my hand, yanks me to my feet. We head into the hall and find the twins at the top of the stairs. Sophie clutches her blanket to her face, only her wide eyes visible above it. Tom clings to her arm with one hand, Blue Duck in the other.

‘It’s scary here,’ Tom says as Mark reaches the top of the flight.

‘Don’t be daft, Tom. What’s there to be scared of?’ Mark says.

‘The locked door,’ says Sophie. ‘Something’s knocking in there. What if it gets out?’

I get the twins’ unease about the attic. In this big old place shadows bounce off walls, floorboards creak and the heating pipes gurgle and ping. Every weird sound spells aliens to Tom and spooks to Sophie.

‘It’s locked, Sophie. Nothing’s in there and nothing’s coming out,’ says Mark. He’s tired and his patience is running thin, exasperation clear in his voice.

‘Jump into our bed, Dad’ll check around. We’ll soon get used to it here. I’ll lock up and come and give you a cuddle.’

 

‘Tom’s wheezy,’ I say, climbing into bed beside our son. The twins fill the centre of our bed, Mark lies on the far side next to Sophie.

‘There’s enough dust to make anyone wheezy. If I told them once I told them a dozen times to stop chasing around, slamming doors.’

‘I think he’ll be okay.’ I recall seeing his inhaler beside his bed.

‘Those old keys you sorted, nothing fits the office, but one locked the spare bedroom. It should help keep the draughts down if you keep it locked, Kate. I can’t find where that knocking’s coming from, but it’s probably in the attic. A window left open, rattling in the wind maybe. Nothing to worry about, I’ll sort it next weekend.’

I haven’t heard the noises stressing Mark and the twins, only the spare room concerns me. If it’s locked it’s one less thing to worry about.

‘Now they’re finally asleep, how about we sneak off to Tom’s room?’ I say.

Mark lies with his eyes closed looking just like our daughter tucked in close beside him. Both have semi-circles of curling dark eyelashes resting on cheeks flushed pink with the heat of us pressed close together. For a moment, as he doesn’t respond, I wonder if he’s already asleep.

‘You go off if you want, Kate. It’s been a long day.’