Oliver Meadows had not found anybody else, and after a disconcertingly brief telephone conversation with him, Thea wended her way across the uplands of the eastern Cotswolds and through the heart of the region towards Winchcombe in the west, on the following Saturday morning. The weather was bright and balmy, the roads uncluttered, and the long undulations of the final miles brought to mind the endless unpredictability of the area. She was on the little road from Guiting Power that led crookedly past Sudeley Farm and then instantly into the heart of Winchcombe, which was nowhere near as large as she’d imagined, and even more beautiful.
The road narrowed impossibly as she approached the junction with the town’s main street, forcing traffic to be patient and polite as drivers took their turn to negotiate the junction. It was a steep hill up to the high street, and there was space for only one vehicle at a time, with high old buildings crowding in on either side. One was a big pub, the White Hart, she noticed. A large black car was waiting to turn down into the street, which would be impossible until Thea got out of the way. The potential for genuine logjam was plain; all it would take was one impatient driver, or a learner stalling their car on the hill. But everyone seemed cheerfully content to give way and wait for things to sort themselves out. Thea turned left, wondering just how forbearing the drivers would have been if she’d tried to go the other way. She crawled along, hoping she’d remembered Oliver’s directions accurately. The town square (which was in fact a long thin rectangle) was full of parked cars, and a white van was obstructing the way ahead. This gave Thea time to look round and try to get a feel for the place – a first impression that she knew from past experience would colour her reaction to Winchcombe from that point on.
To her right was a long featureless wall and a generous pavement. The wall reminded her of the way Snowshill Manor sat invisibly in the heart of the village behind a similar stone barrier. But here in Winchcombe there was merely the ghost of an abbey that had once been of immense importance. That much she knew from her history. Now it looked to be nothing more than a park with large trees and uninviting gates. The eye was drawn back to the buildings and relative bustle on the opposite side. As she manoeuvred around the white van, she saw Vineyard Street a short way to the left, with a sign to Sudeley Castle. That was her destination and she turned down it with a feeling of relief that at least the first hurdle had been overcome. Getting lost in the Cotswolds lanes was a perpetual faint anxiety, although in reality it had very seldom happened. The local authority was blessedly generous with signs, which helped a lot.
Vineyard Street was wide and probably lovely, if she had been able to see past the throngs of cars packed on either side. There were also trees concealing the detail of the houses. A few yards ahead was a stone bridge, just as Oliver had said, and she accomplished the final approach without mishap.
It was far from customary for Thea to feel uneasy as she approached a new house-sitting commission. And yet here she was, her head swarming with worries. The instructions told her to turn left into a disused farmyard. The house, named Thistledown, was to be found beyond the yard, with its own short track and minimal parking area. That much had come easily, but she was still tense. It had all happened too quickly, with no time to get into the right mood. Normally she had weeks or months in which to prepare for a house-sit. She would consult maps and history books and plan some walks and visits. The fact that events all too often sent such plans into oblivion was neither here nor there.
She had, for the first time, agreed to do the job without her usual preliminary visit, which she knew was risky. She was relying on her mother’s recommendation, which felt anything but solid. The tenuous link with another Meadows, whose role in her mother’s life she still did not remotely understand, was perplexing. ‘But who is he?’ she had demanded.
‘He was a boyfriend of mine, before I met your father,’ came the unsatisfactory reply.
‘But Mum – that must have been fifty years ago,’ Thea had protested.
‘Yes. Isn’t life strange? He remembers all sorts of things that I have absolutely no recollection of.’
‘And vice versa, I expect.’
‘What? Oh, I’m not sure about that. His memory seems to be a great deal better than mine.’
There was a shadow of embarrassment in the whole situation. Mothers ought not to discover long-forgotten boyfriends. It was hard to see how any good could come of it.
‘Where does he live?’
‘He’s staying with his daughter at the moment, because he’s just come back from Australia. He went there when he was thirty-five, and now he’s decided he wants to spend his final years in England.’
‘Isn’t the daughter Australian, then? Why is she here?’
Her mother had sighed noisily. ‘Why so many questions? If you must know, the wife brought the child back here, after ten years of marriage. Fraser stayed in Perth, because he liked it there and had a good job. He married again, but that wife died after only a year. So now he wants to get to know his grandchildren. Is that clear enough for you?’
Thea thought of her mother’s handsome Oxfordshire house, where she lived alone, and wondered whether this Fraser might have unwholesome designs on it. The idea of her father being replaced in the bed and chair and garden shed gave her a sharp pang. ‘Has Damien met him?’ she asked. Her brother was now the acknowledged head of the family, to whose judgements his mother and sisters all deferred.
‘He has, actually,’ said her mother shortly. ‘And you’re soon to meet his brother, aren’t you?’
She met Oliver Meadows for precisely thirty-five minutes before he departed on his urgent business. He gave her no indication as to what that business might be, and offered no contact details. Thea inwardly sighed – too many people thought it was permissable to simply disappear into the blue, and leave their long-suffering house-sitter to deal with all the unforeseen events that very often transpired the moment their backs were turned.
‘It’s quite simple,’ he said. ‘You just have to maintain the feeding programme for the birds. I’ve written it all down here, look. And I’ve made a list of places you might like to go and see.’
Instead of reading the notes, she looked at him. He was tall and slightly stooped, aged somewhere in his mid seventies, with calm, slow movements. His gaze seemed to be focused at a considerable distance, so she never felt that he saw her at all. He did, however, see her dog. Somehow, nobody had told him about the dog. ‘That’s a dog,’ he said, when she walked up to his door with the spaniel at her heels.
‘I’m afraid it is. I always bring her with me. I assumed my mother would have told you.’
‘Does it chase birds?’
It was an awkward question. The dog was a cocker spaniel, so called because they had been bred from medieval times to pursue and catch woodcock. And woodcock were birds. Hepzibah, however, had seldom displayed very much of a genetic tendency to plunge aggressively into whatever habitat the modern version of woodcock frequented. She did, however, enjoy a hearty pursuit of waterfowl. She would sometimes dive into icy waters in futile efforts to catch a mallard or moorhen. ‘Oh no,’ Thea said. ‘She’s not the least bit interested in birds.’
‘Do you give me your solemn assurance of that?’
Experience suggested that it really was best to be honest, if at all possible. ‘She’s not entirely perfect with ducks,’ she confessed. ‘But otherwise, I can promise you she’ll be no trouble at all.’
‘Ducks,’ said the man thoughtfully. ‘There aren’t any ducks. I have been thinking of putting in a small lake, but it never happened. Perhaps when I get back …’
A small lake sounded ambitious. ‘How many acres are there?’ Thea asked.
‘Four and a half. I planted all the trees myself, twenty-five years ago. It was just open ground before that.’
‘Wow!’
They were standing on a small raised patio, a few steps up from the house, looking eastwards across a densely wooded area. Apparently, the birds were in amongst the trees, which were predominately silver birch, willow, and fir – fast-growing species that gave shelter to wildlife where none had been before. ‘Come and look,’ said Oliver Meadows, with a swift glance at his watch.
The property was situated immediately to the south of Winchcombe’s main street and roughly north of the grand edifice of Sudeley Castle. A little river bordered it on one side, and a generous swathe of allotments had been established just beyond the water course. The whole area was busy on this sunny Saturday, with visitors to Sudeley’s parklands, as well as the patchwork gardens dense with beans, cabbages and pumpkins. Both sides of the road were lined with parked cars, which Thea had been forced to negotiate as she located the approach to Oliver’s house. ‘There is a better way, from the back, but it’s too complicated to explain,’ he said impatiently.
The tour of the acres was rapid and bewildering. In the middle of the woodland, quite invisible from outside, was a large hide, built from logs and thatched with bracken. Inside it had a cupboard full of peanuts, fat balls, mealworms and other food enjoyed by birds; a table; two high stools; a shelf containing binoculars and notebooks; and a large poster displaying all the finches that could be found in Britain. There was also an expensive-looking remote-controlled video camera positioned in the middle of the long viewing slit, which could swivel left and right to track birds as they visited the extensive feeding station ten feet away.
‘There’s no power out here,’ Oliver explained. ‘The camera runs on batteries. They have to be replaced every morning. So does the SD card.’
‘Is it going all the time?’
‘Ideally, yes. I don’t want to miss anything, but I can’t sit here the entire time.’
‘Of course not,’ said Thea, feeling relieved that she wasn’t expected to do so.
‘I understand that your mother would like to come and see the set-up while I’m away. I have no objection to that, so long as you take responsibility for her.’
The idea struck Thea as mildly comical, but she was careful to keep a straight face. ‘Let me show you the routines,’ he went on relentlessly, with another glance at his watch.
He took her outside and demonstrated the numerous tables, hooks, water bowls, and wire contraptions all intended to hold food for the birds. ‘Squirrels are a huge problem, of course,’ he sighed. ‘They can open almost anything, given time.’
‘I hope I don’t have to shoot them,’ she joked.
‘No, but there is a catapult in the hide, which you’re welcome to use. It does take a lot of practice, unfortunately.’
She wisely refrained from telling him that her spaniel was more than ready to chase a squirrel, given the chance. She had yet to succeed in catching one.
He led her down a little path to a sudden area of open ground, thronged with long grass and spikes of various meadow plants, long since gone to seed and stripped. It looked like almost half an acre in size. Thea could see a rickety gate at the far side. ‘This forms the boundary of my property,’ he said. ‘You can get out over there, on foot, and turn left to get into town. You come out in Castle Street, which leads into the high street. It’s a short, easy walk, if you want to pop out for some shopping.’
The tour was over in no time, and Thea suspected that they were both feeling decidedly nervous as Oliver scrambled into his car. ‘I’m sorry this has all been such a rush,’ he said. ‘If it’s any consolation, I would far rather not be going, but I haven’t any choice. The exact day of my return is uncertain, I’m afraid. It could be any time next week – but not longer than that. Your mother knows my brother, of course. If you need any help, he might be slightly better than nothing.’ He pulled a rueful face. ‘Although I suggest you do your best not to need him.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she breezed. After all, she thought, how difficult can it be to feed the birds? Any eight-year-old could do it.
In reality, the instructions had been deplorably sketchy. She wasn’t precisely sure how to operate the camera, for one thing. Oliver had embarked on a hurried elucidation of how it worked, but then interrupted himself at the sight of a goldfinch swinging on one of the feeders. ‘Hey – she hasn’t been here for over a week!’ he rejoiced. ‘I was worrying.’ He lapsed into an enchanted silence as he watched the gaudy little bird.
‘The camera?’ Thea prompted.
‘It’s not really difficult. Don’t bother with the panning, but if you could change the cards and batteries … and label the cards with the date, maybe? I hate to miss anything, you see.’ He was whispering, his eyes firmly on the finch. ‘It is rather important,’ he added. ‘The records will lose all their purpose if there’s two weeks missing, do you see?’
‘Oh yes,’ she asserted bravely.
As a final thought, he tried to assure her that it was going to be rather a treat. ‘You can go out any time you like, of course. There’s a lot to see around here. Winchcombe has more history than almost anywhere, right here on the doorstep. And then there’s Hailes Abbey and Belas Knap and all that …’ He smiled encouragingly at her, and started the engine. As he drove off, Thea found herself struggling to feel glad to be there, with new places to explore and bird species to learn. It was easy, she insisted to herself, and there were bound to be distractions.
But the hurried arrangements began to strike her as unsettlingly irresponsible as she tried to find her way around the house, and resolve such urgent issues as what she would eat and where she would sleep. ‘Spare room, everything should be self-explanatory,’ Oliver Meadows had said carelessly, without even taking her upstairs. Although accustomed to a certain lack of formality in many of her house-sitting commissions, she found this one the most casual to date. All the man cared about were his birds, it seemed. She could neglect the house completely, so long as the feeders were full and the camera doing its job.
Why had she agreed to do it, she asked herself, as she looked round at the dusty interior? The house faced south-west, with trees to the north and east, and a downhill slope to the south. It was shaded from the sun that morning, and as far as Thea could tell, would not get very much light at any time. The windows were small in the old stone walls, and the interior felt chilly. There was no actual garden with a lawn to sit on or a sun-filled summerhouse. The patio was bare of furniture, containing nothing more than two large plant pots in which grew a bay tree and a fig, neither looking particularly robust.
The kitchen offered basic facilities in the form of a gas cooker, fridge and microwave, as well as electric kettle and toaster. It was almost as ascetic as self-catering holiday cottages used to be, with added dust on many of the surfaces.
She felt unreasonably lonely and abandoned. She had not wanted another commission, as she had tried to explain to her mother. She had been busy being bored, she admitted to herself. Bored and rather depressed, thanks to events over the summer. She was forty-four and single, with no clear idea of her future and a growing suspicion that she was not making the best of her life.
And she had no idea at all what, if anything, she should do about Drew.