7

 

 

GWYNN WAS UNSETTLED all afternoon at her drawing, and when the light, never strong to begin with, began to fail, she set the pencils aside and pushed back from the table. Still she remained sitting in the chair before the window, watching the streetlights bloom in the lane. The hulking stone facade of the pub across the way grew darker, the gold handle on the red door sparked by the lamps beside it. The afternoon was still gloomy, but now the daylight had bled away. All day, each time she’d looked up, it had looked like a rainy scene—but without the rain. Two men emerged from the pub’s door and stood huddled under the overhang between the glowing bow windows on either side. One shook a cigarette out of a packet and offered it to the other, who waved it away. The first man lit a match and bent over it, cupping the flame in his hand. After a moment, he leaned back, pulled the cigarette from his lips, and blew a long cloud into the air, where it hung over their heads.

She watched the two take their leave from one another, one man heading up the hill, the second down toward the village.

It would be companionable, she thought wistfully, to spend an hour in the local with a friend. Talking football or the EU, perhaps. She could imagine the low murmur of voices punctuated by the occasional laugh, the clink of glass against glass. All romanticizing: she had yet to set foot inside the pub. She felt hesitant, knowing what she knew about the proprietor. A cousin. More than likely, a resentful one. She sighed.

The clock in the sitting room struck the hour.

There really was no way around it. She plucked her coat from the tree by the front door, checked to be sure she had her keys and cash, and let herself out.

 

THE PUB WAS very much as she had imagined it, though dingier, not quite as firelit, not quite as noisy. It was early yet, and there were only a handful of people scattered about the low heavy tables, and a couple more at the fruit machine to the right. The man she had seen the other day, sans cap and red jacket, had his shirtsleeves rolled up as he wiped down the bar, his backward twin in the speckled mirror behind him. He looked up as she entered and nodded shortly, as though they were acquaintances. Which, after a fashion, they were.

“What’ll you have, Mrs. Forest?” he asked, tossing the bar towel aside. He was wearing reading glasses, and he dipped his head to look over them at her. His voice was not hostile, nor was it overly friendly. Just neutral. On guard.

She looked at the taps; they all advertised Bowman Ales. “What do you recommend, Mr. Stokes?” Two could play this game, she supposed—as long as she hadn’t made a grievous error in guessing his identity.

Again he nodded. Acknowledgement of points to both sides.

“I’d suggest a Swift One.”

“A pint, then. And have something yourself.” She laid her money down and watched his large hands upend a glass and pull the tap handle.

The ale gushed out a warm light amber. Almost the color of her hair, she thought, catching a glimpse of herself in the back bar mirror. Almost the color of his, too.

“You know who I am, then,” she said as he slid the pint glass across the buffed wood of the bar.

He nodded again, his eyes narrowed above the glasses. “Not hard. You’ve been in the village—what? Two days now? Three?”

Something told her he knew exactly how long she’d been in the village, in the cottage, down to the minute. She nodded. She recognized the beginning of a dog fight, the two of them circling warily, getting a sense of one another.

“And you know who I am.” He drew himself a half, took a long drink, then wiped his sandy moustache with the back of his wrist.

“Cousins,” Gwynn said. “Of a sort. I didn’t even know I had any cousins until James Simms the solicitor told me I did.”

“So you thought you’d just slip across and say hello.”

“I did.”

“You want to gloat?”

The anger burst out so swiftly and unexpectedly—violently, even—that it was like being slapped. Gwynn reeled back, staring at Paul Stokes.

“No,” she gasped, catching her breath.

He tossed back the rest of his half as though it were water, then set the glass on the bar so sharply Gwynn thought it would break. She too took a long sip from her pint, rolled it around on her tongue, buying time. Perhaps she had imagined the anger. Perhaps she was just paranoid. She blinked, letting the world right itself.

“This is good,” she offered weakly after a moment.

Stokes sneered at the inanity. “If that’s all you can come up with.” Leaning with both hands against the bar, he watched her with those narrowed eyes. They were dark, deep-set.

She willed herself to hold his gaze. Not so paranoid after all.

“Stokes. What Gwynn’s having,” Colin said.

Gwynn had not seen him come in; perhaps he’d been in the pub all along.

Stokes started, though, more so than she thought he might have at the request. A moment passed before she realized that Colin had used her given name; he had not once called her by it the previous afternoon, maintaining a formal distance. The name had jarred her cousin: Gwynn. The given name of their mutual great-aunt.

“If Sarah’s around, come join us and sit for a minute.” Colin’s suggestion was firm, saying more than the words. He paid for his pint, nodded in the direction of an empty table in the rear corner. Gwynn followed him through the gauntlet of customers, the pub filling now; he heard Paul Stokes shout “Sarah!” over his shoulder before skirting the bar to join them.

Perhaps later in the evening someone would touch a match to the already-laid fire on the broad hearth beyond their corner table. Perhaps Stokes would, after he’d calmed down. Right now, though, he was too angry to do much of anything save yank the chair out and throw himself heavily into it. Gwynn felt the waves of fury rolling off him as though heat from a furnace. No fire needed. She recoiled, inching her chair a bit further away from him.

“Why are you here?” Stokes demanded. He’d abandoned his half-pint glass for a full one.

Gwynn reminded herself that she had expected the antagonism. Whether her cousin owned this pub or simply managed it, having lived with expectations of inheritance for so long and then having those expectations dashed must have been gall in his mouth.

“I told you,” she said. “To meet you. I didn’t know I had any relations left in the world until Mr. Simms told me about you.”

“Didn’t know you were taking from me, then?” Stokes didn’t sound convinced. He held his glass between both hands. The dim light glinted on the sandy hair on his thick arms.

“Our great-aunt made that choice,” Gwynn protested. “I had nothing to do with it. We never spoke about it.” Nor about anything else, she thought, but that was beside the point.

“You could have refused the bequest. But you didn’t.”

She hated being made to feel defensive. She had always hated it. She knew, from experience, that someone who worked to make her feel that was immune to reason, so there was no point in attempting to defend herself anyway. The hole would only get deeper.

“No. I didn’t.” She sighed, took a sip of ale. “I’m not here to gloat.” She set her glass down in the wet circle on the scuffed table.

“No? Well, I’m guessing you’re not here to turn the house over to me, either.” Stokes nearly spat the words. He’d taken off the reading glasses, and now turned the wire frames in his beefy hands as though he might crush them.

“Tell me why I should give you Gull Cottage.” The words sounded more of a challenge than she had intended; she’d have to moderate her tone if she expected this conversation to go anywhere.

Stokes leaned toward her. “Because you were nothing to Gwynn Chelton. Nothing. You didn’t even know her.”

“But Mrs. Chelton obviously knew about Gwynn,” Colin said, laying heavy emphasis on the given name.

“Stay out of this, Moore,” Stokes said. “It’s none of your business. This is a family matter, between Mrs. Forest and me.”

His voice, though low, sounded clear over the clink of glassware, the shouts of the men at the fruit machine. The rage was loud and obvious.

“You weren’t here, Not when the old woman needed you. Not like I was. You’re not the one who grew up here. You’re not the one who looked in on the old woman, who took care of things for her when she wasn’t able. You did sod all for her, and she left the entire bag to you in her will? Why’s that, then? Because you two shared a name? That’s just not on. You don’t deserve the house. You’re an incomer, taking what isn’t yours—what you have no right to.” Again Stokes leaned closer, so close the smell of cigarette smoke on his clothes was acrid in Gwynn’s nostrils. “If you had half a shred of decency in you, you’d refuse the bequest, and let it go to relations who were closer. Relations who are deserving. Relations who were here.”

Again Gwynn felt the fury like a slap, and again she recoiled. It was black, powerful, and frightening. Was it right, though? Perfectly legal, the solicitor had reassured her, but was her inheritance morally right? She shook her head.

“What did you do for her?” she asked.

Gwynn thought Stokes’ face grew redder at the question, but in the dim lighting she couldn’t be sure.

“I was here. Here for her. Unlike you.” He slapped a beefy hand on the worn table. “And I am contesting that will, you can be sure of it.” He stood up, kicked the chair aside. “You’ll be hearing from my solicitor. So don’t get too comfortable over there, because you’ll be out on your ear. It’s only a matter of time.”

With that, he wheeled away from the table, knocking over the remainder of his pint. By the time Gwynn had jerked away from the beer flooding across the wood and looked up, he had disappeared through the swinging door beside the hearth. The woman who had taken his place at the taps met her eyes for just a moment, then looked away again, quickly.

 

“I’LL JUST SEE you across the way,” Colin said, letting the pub door close behind them on a wave of raucous laughter.

“No need.”

He apparently felt no need to answer. Across the road and up the path, the front window glowed softly with lamplight. Had she left the light on? Gwynn couldn’t remember. She turned abruptly to the right and headed downhill.

“What is it?” Colin asked. Hands thrust into the pockets of his heavy coat, he shortened his steps to hers.

“I need to walk that off.” Had she left the light on? She refused to look back over her shoulder.

At the foot of the hill, the intersection. They crossed the road, followed the footpath to the estuary. The tide was just below high; the darkness smelled of brine. She leaned against the low wall, breathing deeply. Colin stood a few feet away, looking down at the water, hands still in pockets.

“That went well,” she said at last.

Colin’s laugh was short, sharp. “Line’s drawn.”

Somewhere on the other side of the estuary, a gull cried.

“I had to try.” She felt close to tears. “I haven’t felt that kind of anger in years. That kind of hatred.”

“Strong word,” Colin said slowly. “It’s not personal. He’d feel the same way about anyone else who had inherited.” He sighed. “But you had to try.”

“You knew how it was going to turn out.” Biting her lip, Gwynn turned her back on the water. Back down at the intersection, the street lamp near the call box flickered.

“Known the man all my life.” Colin shrugged. “People stay true.”

For some reason Gwynn resisted this indictment. “But is he right? Have I taken away from someone who’s more deserving? He might have had a point. I’m an interloper. He spent his life with her, as he said. Helping—”

“No. Mrs. Chelton didn’t want his help any more than she wanted it from the rest of us.”

“But you kept coming back—”

“And he didn’t.” Colin still gazed down at the tide below. Tides which remained as true as the people of his acquaintance. “Don’t be fooled.”

“What are you saying?”

His profile was in shadow. He tipped his head, considering. “If there’s anyone more deserving, it wouldn’t be him. In all the years I did work for Mrs. Chelton, I never once saw him cross the road for her. Never heard of him doing it, either.” He fell silent for a moment. “If Mrs. Chelton had left the property to the one who cared for her, she would have left it to Mary Tennant, is all. If there is anyone more deserving, it’s Mary. The things she did for Mrs. Chelton, without question, without thanks—she’d be the one.”

Mary Tennant would be the first to say Colin Moore had been the one, Gwynn knew instinctively.  Above them wisps of cloud against the night sky obscured the stars. She stared upward anyway, hoping for a glimpse of a familiar constellation. She always navigated by the stars, and right now, standing in a strange village in a strange country, she was lost.

“So Paul Stokes hasn’t a case?”

Colin shook his head. “I don’t think he does.” Which doesn’t mean he won’t try. The words hung silently between them. Gwynn sighed and pushed away from the wall.

“I’ll walk you up,” Colin said.

“No need.”

He laughed.

Through the intersection, up the hill, up the path to the tiny stone terrace. On the stoop before the door lay a dead dove, its eye staring blankly upwards.