3

 

On February 1, St. Bridget’s Day, dressed in my most formal outfit and well wrapped up against the raw day, I walked in through the village to take up my new post. Mam thought I should drive so I didn’t show up “looking like a pauper,” but it wasn’t much farther than the village and, as always, I preferred to walk. Days were lengthening and the land was visibly waking despite the lingering cold. It was a blustery morning, the daffodils that had bloomed under the trees tossed on the wind and the bare branches rattled overhead like old bones. It was early still, so the village was quiet, not many people about apart from the small crowd waiting for the bus to take them to work in the city. I fingered Daniel’s key in my pocket and my mind took up an old rhyme from childhood, “Ring-a-ring of Roses.”

As I went through the gate to the estate my scarf, undone by the wind, blew up over my face and I gave an involuntary yelp of fright as I swiped it away. It caught on the rough iron of the gate and yanked me to a stop, I loosened it and waited for my fright to settle, trying to persuade myself it was not a bad omen, and continued up the long driveway to the house.

The land being a bit higher here than the farm, the gardens were still in late winter mode, just a few snowdrops and crocus scattered at the edge of the path. The heavens opened as I reached the door, so I wasted no time having second thoughts on the step. The key turned easily in the lock.

It was gloomy inside, the curtains still drawn against the night. I went first to the parlour, the only room I knew. I opened the curtains and paused to admire the oak and poplar trees that sheltered the lawn the rain was attempting to turn into a pool. I listened to the house, the strike of rain on the window, the small creaks as the wind whipped around it. It had a stale, musky smell, and a neglected kind of quietness that felt heavy, even sad. A house like this needed some light and love. It was made for family, but as far as I knew it had been mostly empty for the past twenty years or so, except whenever Daniel was at home, which wasn’t often or for long. No wonder he didn’t want to be here alone. A renewal of the downpour sent me away from the window to find the kitchen.

It was a large room with a beautiful oak table and chairs taking up the area near the window. An electric kettle sat next to the stove. I filled it and plugged it in before I took my coat off. I had no idea what Daniel Wolfe liked for breakfast these days. I remembered days of hotel hot breakfasts eaten well into the afternoon, and wondered if he rose late or early. An examination of the fridge revealed nothing much inside: a few eggs, a carton of milk, a bottle of gin lying on its side, and a tomato that should have been thrown out about two days before. The bread bin had a heel of bread that might be all right toasted. In the absence of knowing what to do next, I made myself a cup of tea, sniffed the milk and, deciding it was all right, poured a dollop into my tea. I sat at the table and listened to the wind batter the house looking for purchase and waited for Daniel Wolfe to put in an appearance.