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THE TELEPHONE RANG promptly at nine the next morning, just as the mantle clock was chiming that last note—almost as though the caller had been watching that clock, or one synchronized to it, carefully. Gwynn staggered down the stairs, clutching the rail with one hand while wiping her eyes with the other; she felt drugged, and thought she might have had bad dreams, but they were all confused and incoherent. Jet lag, she told herself, following the sound of the ringing into the sitting room, to the book shelf at the side wall. The phone sat in its charging base on a hand-stitched runner.

“Mrs. Forest?” The voice was business-like, no-nonsense. “Mary Tennant here. I was Mrs. Chelton’s char?”

“Yes. Yes, hello.” Gwynn stifled a yawn. “I’m sorry. I’m still not quite with it this morning. I’ve got you to thank for the spotless house and the wonderful dinner last night, haven’t I?”

“Yes. Was it all right, then?” Without waiting for an answer, Mary Tennant continued. “Mrs. Forest, I’ve still got the key Mr. Simms gave me, the key to your cottage. I wonder if I might drop it by later this morning, if that would be convenient?”

“Of course. And—” The decision seemed already to be made, as though she’d dreamed of it in the night. “I’d like to discuss the possibility of hiring you for a few mornings a week, when you come by. Would that be all right?”

Mary Tennant’s brisk voice softened over the line, but only barely. “That will be fine. Would ten suit?”

That gave Gwynn an hour to shower and dress and clean up the mess she’d made in the kitchen; one could hardly present oneself or one’s house to a prospective cleaning lady at anything less than spotless. Judging from the precise timing of the call, Mary Tennant’s knock on the door would no doubt come at precisely ten by the ringing of the clock on the book case. Gwynn rushed upstairs, rifled the contents of her suitcase in search of clean clothes, and hurried into the bath. She came downstairs some half an hour later, hair wet but combed, and turned her focus to washing up the dirty dishes she’d left in the sink.

The weak morning sun dappled the kitchen tiles through the starched curtains. After putting the last of the tea things away, Gwynn unlocked the rear door to look out into the garden and get a breath of air. She stepped out onto the stoop and the mess of overgrowth surprised her.

The brambles had grown up in the rear garden, encroaching on the small square of scruffy grass. Gwynn froze at the kitchen door, feeling the malevolence, branches creeping ever closer, bearing their small sharp knives. A garden whose mistress must have lost hope in the end, must have given up the fight. She recognized the feeling. Above, the thick sky was pressing down, bruisy dark clouds fending off the sun: all in league with the thorny growth. If she had any thought to escape the claustrophobia of the cottage by stepping outside, she had been sorely mistaken. This garden was a jungle, angry and aggressive.

Yet she could see, some yards away, a gate in the high stone wall which surrounded the garden, the heavy planks weathered and mossy. She was drawn to it. The brambles caught at her jeans as she forced her way through; she wished, as thorns tore at the skin of her hands, that she had gloves. An iron latch, rusty and black, held the gate closed. She pushed forward, grasped it: nothing. The latch refused to open, the gate standing fast, guarding the exit through the crumbling wall. She leaned back, looked upward. Ivy crept over the stones, displacing the mortar in spots. The tree branches beyond, skeletal and bare, whispered and dripped. She pulled at the latch again. Again, nothing.

From the open door, the faint chimes of the mantle clock came to her. She turned quickly back to the house.

 

“IS THIS YOUR plant?” The woman held the pot, with its dead contents, gingerly, eying it with distaste. “No, of course it isn’t.” She frowned, set the pot at the edge of the terrace. “I don’t know how such a thing came to be here.”

Mary Tennant might have been forty-five, might have been sixty-five. Her face was stern but unlined, her hair gray but held back by an Alice band. She wore a short black coat over a flowered dress, and this coat she deigned to unbutton before she sat on the sofa, her square bag firmly on her lap. She looked uncomfortable sitting, and her eyes darted back and forth, as though listing things she needed to be doing instead of lazing about. Gwynn felt guilty, looking around the room as well, searching out things she might have disturbed since the char’s last going-over.

Mrs. Tennant had a small notebook out now, and with a blue pen, she tapped a page. “I used to give Mrs. Charlton two hours, three mornings a week.”

Gwynn nodded. “I’d appreciate your doing the same for me while I’m here.”

“You’ll be living here?”

Gwynn looked out the front window at the roofline of the pub across the way. A single seagull stood at attention on the ridgepole. “I don’t know. I’ve just come to see about the place; I don’t have any firm long-term plans as of yet.”

The pen scratched on the rough paper of the little notebook. Mrs. Tennant wrote, squinted fiercely at what she had written, wrote some more. Wearing reading glasses was apparently something simply not done. “I’ve written you in, then, for eight to ten, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.” She looked up. “I’ll keep the key, if you don’t mind. Now—what about cooking? Will you need me to do any of that? Mrs. Chelton didn’t require that, though I would have been willing.” For a moment a shadow crossed the stern features, but then was gone. Gwynn wondered if perhaps she had imagined it.

“I’ll cook for myself, thanks,” Gwynn said. “But perhaps you could tell me where the nearest market is? The one you use yourself. I’ll need to stock up on the staples.”

Mrs. Tennant nodded. “I’ve got to go myself later this afternoon. Perhaps I could call for you and we could go together.”

For a moment Gwynn felt as though she were in the presence of a particularly demanding schoolteacher, one who would show her the correct way to do things before allowing her to try on her own.

“Thank you,” she said meekly. “I would like that.”

Mrs. Tennant got to her feet, snapping her black bag shut on the little scheduling notebook. “Then I’ll see you this afternoon, about three, after I get done with the Condons’.” Her smile was stiff, as though she didn’t bring it out all that often. “And I’ll see you again tomorrow morning at eight.”

Gwynn, too, stood, and walked her out to the front door.

Hand on knob, Mrs. Tennant turned back. “Is there anything else I can help with in the meantime? You have enough lasagna left for lunch, I expect.”

Probably for the next three lunches. People of Mary Tennant’s acquaintance obviously ate heartily.

“I do,” Gwynn said. “Thank you. It’s delicious. But—” She glanced back into the sitting room at the empty basket near the wood stove. “Firewood?”

“Ah.” The door was open on the gray morning. “Of course. “I’ll make sure you have some by this afternoon as well.” Mrs. Tennant looked up at the sky. “Cold’s drawing on.” She shook her head. “It always does.” Then she was clicking down to the street in her sensible shoes, bearing the dead plant away.