Chapter Seven

‘YOU KNOW, YOU may have a point . . .’

Hetty lifted her head. Had those words really come out of his mouth, in that combination?

He pulled out a stool and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘I didn’t realize, until you told me, how much this house must mean to the community. My work has kept me out of the way, particularly recently, so, although I keep a fairly close eye on Samuel, I don’t spend a lot of time in the village itself.’ Hetty looked up, mystified. She was about to fling her arms metaphorically round his neck, when he went on. ‘But even though I do have some idea now, I can’t change my plans.’

Disappointed that his conversion was not complete, she muttered into the towel, ‘Well no. It would cramp your style no end.’

‘But I will undertake to keep the house going until Samuel dies.’

Now was the time to ask him if he knew about the loan. But if he didn’t, and she told him, he might change his mind again. ‘You mean, you won’t have his house pulled down while he might still want to live in it?’ she said instead.

He clenched his teeth, leaving Hetty thankful for small mercies. Unclenched, his teeth would probably bite. ‘I said, I’m prepared to keep the house going, keep opening it, until Samuel dies. And then – go ahead with my original plan. But I’m not prepared to authorize huge cheques for patching up the place when it needs demolishing.’

He couldn’t know about the huge cheques she was authorized to write, and now was definitely not the time to mention it. ‘The house needs some things doing to it or they won’t let us open it.’ She said this in the vain hope that he might cough up for a few fire extinguishers.

‘Who’s “they”?’

Hetty prevaricated. She didn’t want to go into too much detail. ‘There are regulations.’ That at least was true. ‘We have to have smoke alarms and fire extinguishers, things like that. Nothing that couldn’t be sold on,’ she added quickly. ‘But we can’t just carry on in the way Samuel was doing. Because of the regulations,’ she added, for emphasis. ‘He obviously didn’t care about them.’

‘Probably not.’

‘The thing is . . .’

‘What?’

‘How long are you going to stay? Do you want to open the house, do all the things that need doing, or would you want someone else to?’

His expression of disgust was almost risible. ‘Well, I’m sure as hell not going to tell three elderly ladies fibs about the Civil War while I show them round the great hall every second Saturday.’

For the old ladies’ sake, Hetty rejoiced. ‘Does that mean you’re going away again?’

‘Sorry to dash your hopes, my dear, but no. I haven’t another contract for a while, I’ve sublet my flat, and I thought I’d spend my time near my nearest relative. If that’s all right with his house-sitter, of course.’

He wasn’t the only one who could be sarcastic. ‘I’m sure Samuel will greatly appreciate your presence at his bedside. Just don’t hasten his end too obviously, will you? I don’t want my name in the papers.’ And I’m not at all sure I want to stay here if you’re here too. She kept this to herself, but had a feeling he could read her thoughts.

Connor got to his feet and Hetty braced herself, like a tennis player facing a potentially killing serve. But before either of them could say anything there was a knock on the back door and in came Peter.

He stood on the threshold, looking from one to the other. ‘I just came to see if you were all right,’ he said, as if finding Hetty ‘all right’ was the last thing he had expected. He shot Hetty an anxious look before turning to Connor, hostility showing in every muscle, and beneath that protective instincts ready to spring into action were detectable.

Hetty was annoyed. Peter had no right to barge into the house with his hackles up. He knew Connor was here, after all. And if he did want to check up on her he could ring first, like a civilized human being. While she was thinking how to calm Peter down, Connor answered.

‘Well, I haven’t raped her yet, if that’s what you were worrying about,’ he said in a manner not calculated to set anyone’s mind at rest.

Hetty felt like an old bone which, in the presence of two dogs, suddenly becomes interesting.

‘Peter’s been keeping an eye on me,’ she said quickly, feeling that, as it was almost Connor’s house, he was the more entitled to an explanation. ‘While I’ve been alone here. Terribly kind of him. He looked after Samuel’s dogs until I came. He’s a friend of Samuel’s.’ She turned to Peter, knowing she had to introduce Connor. She took a breath, searching for his surname. It was something like Barbarian, but not. ‘Connor . . .’

‘Connor Barrabin.’ Connor held out his hand to a still-hostile Peter.

Peter took it, sizing him up. ‘Peter Lassiter. As Hetty said, I’m an old friend of Samuel’s.’

Connor nodded, but didn’t reply. Hetty, terrified that he was going to say something inflammatory, burst in with the traditional oil for troubled waters.

‘Would anyone like a cup of tea? Or coffee?’

‘Or whisky?’ suggested Connor. ‘Peter, would you like a drink?’

Peter hesitated, as if wondering whether accepting a glass of duty-free from this man would compromise his integrity. ‘Yes, thank you. That would be nice.’

‘Hetty? What about you?’

‘Yes, please.’ A stiff drink seemed like a very good idea.

Connor poured whisky into three glasses while Hetty found a little jug and filled it with cold water. When Peter had his drink, Connor handed a glass to Hetty. ‘You are old enough to drink, I presume?’

Hetty almost snatched it. ‘You know damn well I am.’

‘I just wouldn’t want Peter thinking I was leading you into bad ways.’

She returned his amused gaze sternly. ‘I’m sure Peter knows you couldn’t lead me anywhere.’

For a moment, their eyes locked and some spark – of admiration or animosity, Hetty wasn’t sure which – passed between them.

‘Couldn’t I?’ he said softly.

Hetty turned away, hoping that, in the inadequate light of the single bulb, no one would notice her blushing, and wondering why on earth she was. ‘Some water, Peter?’ She waved the jug at him and he took it. ‘I’m going to find some biscuits or something. You two go in by the fire. We can’t sit in here.’

A little later Hetty brought a plate of crackers and cheese through to where the men were comfortably established, long legs stretched out. Peter was sitting on the one decent armchair, and Connor was on the sofa. Rather than sit next to him, and be thrown up against him by the missing springs, Hetty sat on the floor. She took a sip from her glass and noticed Peter looking at her. He seemed a little shocked to see her drinking neat whisky.

The fire crackled and the dogs shifted about, but no one said anything. Hetty searched frantically for a neutral topic of conversation, which cut out the house, Samuel, village life, and everything else all three of them would know about, apart from the weather.

‘Did you finish that woman’s kitchen?’ she asked Peter eventually. ‘Peter is a joiner – he makes wonderful kitchens.’

‘Really? And do you earn a decent living, making kitchens?’

‘Sorry?’ said Peter, wondering if he’d misheard.

‘I mean,’ Connor went on, ‘if you’re courting Hetty, I’m the nearest thing here to a family member, I ought to find out what your prospects are.’

Hetty would have liked to kill Connor at that moment, but with a supreme effort she hung on to her temper. ‘Oh, Connor,’ she said, as blandly as she could manage, ‘you’ve got it all wrong. Peter isn’t courting me at all. I expect he’s got a girlfriend the other side of the village, haven’t you, Peter?’

‘No, actually.’

‘He and I are just good friends.’ She shot Peter a look that was more glare than friendship. ‘Aren’t we?’

‘Don’t knock it,’ said Connor. ‘A good friend is harder to find than a lover. Don’t you agree, Peter?’

Hetty wanted to die or groan very loudly.

‘I would hope that one thing might lead to another,’ said Peter.

‘Ah, the romantic view. I’m afraid I’m old-fashioned. I see men as friends and women as lovers, and I don’t like to mix them.’

‘That is old-fashioned,’ said Hetty. ‘Not to mention wildly politically incorrect. Men can have friendships with women, even if they are heterosexual.’

‘Believe me, sex always rears its ugly head sooner or later. Women may think they can be friends with a man, but sex will always be there somewhere, for the man at least.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ Hetty insisted, knowing that in Peter’s case it probably was. ‘And anyway, aren’t we getting a little heavy? How about another drink?’

Peter got to his feet. ‘Well, actually, I’ve got to go. Things to do. I just popped in . . .’

‘. . . to see if Hetty was all right,’ Connor finished for him.

Hetty got up too. ‘Oh shut up, Connor,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll see you out.’ And she pushed Peter to the door before Connor could make any maddening comments about them kissing good-night.

‘How long is he staying?’ Peter asked, when they were safely out of earshot.

‘I don’t know. And I don’t suppose he does either.’

‘I don’t like you being here alone with him. I don’t trust him.’

‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Peter! He’s not going to jump on me or anything. I’m perfectly safe. And it is practically his house; he’s entitled to live in it.’ Even if he does plan to pull it down.

‘And will he let you stay?’

‘I think so. He’s not keen on showing old ladies around the place.’

‘But do you want to go on living here? In the house, with him?’

Hetty exhaled slowly. ‘I don’t really know. He’s been in bed most of the time since he arrived. I want to stay here, yes. But I don’t know if we can live together. On the other hand, I’m not going to let him stand in the way of our plans if I can help it.’

‘But how are you going to do that? If the place is practically his?’

‘I don’t know, Peter. I’m just going to hang on if I can. Now can you please go? You’re letting all the heat out.’ And driving me completely mad with questions I can’t answer.

Hetty went back to the sitting room, wondering how to face Connor. Her mother would have offered him a nice piece of cake, on the grounds that men usually got irritable because they were hungry. But Hetty didn’t have a nice piece of cake, and she didn’t think a stale fairy cake left over from the car-boot sale would quite do. Nor did she think Connor’s awkward temperament was anything to do with hunger. He’d just eaten a plate of cheese and crackers, and as there weren’t any more she was forced to confront him unarmed.

He was standing with his back to the fire, his whisky glass refilled. He handed Hetty her glass, equally replenished. ‘Don’t you want it?’ he said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t think.’ Hetty was quite happy to accept it. It was such a relief to see him being unconfrontational. ‘So, that was Peter.’

‘Yes.’

‘Very protective.’

‘Yes.’ She took a bracing sip. ‘He was asking whether I’ll stay, now you’re here.’

‘And will you? I’m sure the idea of us sharing a house makes Peter feel very uncomfortable, but how does it make you feel?’

Hetty bit her lip. ‘I don’t know. I suppose it depends on whether you want me here or not.’

Connor shrugged. ‘I don’t feel strongly either way. You don’t take up much room.’

‘So?’

‘Well, what do you want, Hetty? Do you want to stay? Sort out the visitors and Mrs Hempstead? Or do you want to go back to your parents?’

It seemed that no one had asked Hetty what she wanted for a long time. Lately, people had mostly told her what she had to do, what was expected, or what was good for the community.

Connor perched on the edge of the sofa. ‘I imagine Peter would like you to stay,’ he continued.

‘I’m sure he doesn’t care one way or the other –’

‘Oh come on! He’s half-way in love with you. Anyone can see that. But Peter aside, are you happy here? Or do you want to get out while you still have the choice?’

Hetty didn’t want Connor to think there was anything going on between her and Peter, even if, one day, there might be. ‘Peter aside, I’m busy and I feel useful. I came here more or less against my will, but when I got here and saw what needed doing, I got involved. I would like to see things through.’ She took a rather large gulp of her drink. ‘Although I do realize that now you’re here, things are a bit different.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, the house doesn’t need a sitter. And your . . . plans . . . for the place are quite different from my dreams.’ If it hadn’t been for the whisky she wouldn’t have used a word like ‘dreams’ in front of someone like Connor.

‘My living here needn’t make much difference. As I said, you don’t take up much space, although that’s the one thing this damn house has got plenty of. As for your dreams . . .’ he hesitated and almost smiled, ‘. . . you’re young, you’re entitled to them, however impractical they may be.’

‘They’re not impractical, not really. I mean, my plan probably wouldn’t make as much money as other options might, but eventually, when everything was up and running, we’d earn enough to keep the house going.’ Now was the time to mention the loan for the roof, while he was being comparatively nice. She found she couldn’t do it. ‘If that was what . . . anyone . . . wanted to do.’

Connor was silent for so long that Hetty had finished her whisky and the dogs had stopped begging for the cracker crumbs by the time he next spoke.

‘I’ll go and see Samuel tomorrow – see how well he’s coped with the operation – and then decide what I think is best. But quite frankly, Hetty, if I think he’s on the way out, I’m not going to let you play Stately Homes. I’ll only let you stay if I think he’s got a chance of coming out of hospital.’

‘Hang on.’ Hetty’s mind was not at its clearest. ‘Who’s doing whom the favour? Who came to keep your inheritance from being burgled, or burning down? And now you’re talking about letting me stay?’

‘I can do without you, Hetty. You’re not here for me. I didn’t ask you to come.’ He spoke softly, with painful truthfulness.

She thought for a moment. ‘OK. So I can stay and play Stately Homes if Samuel looks like recovering? If not, I’m –free to go?’

‘You’re free to go at any time. As I said, you’re not doing me any favours.’

‘It was Samuel I came to help.’

‘Then stay as long as Samuel needs you.’ He took Hetty’s glass from her. ‘And now I think we need to eat. A few crackers might be enough for you, but they barely filled the holes in my teeth.’

Remembering that he hadn’t eaten for days, Hetty followed him out of the room, prepared, in view of his illness, to cook him something. Once in the kitchen she saw him open the fridge and pull things out, muttering under his breath about how little there was to cook with.

‘Can I help?’ she asked, watching him cutting the soft bits out of a couple of tomatoes and a green pepper.

‘Only if you can make toast proficiently.’

She snarled at him, cut two slices of bread and put them in the toaster. She stood over it. Knowing her luck the thing would burst into flames or burn the bread if she didn’t.

While guarding the toast, she watched him make a meal out of what was available. Scrambled eggs, baked beans, tomatoes cooked in the oven, half a green pepper singed on the gas and chopped, and the one remaining rasher of bacon snipped on to the eggs. For someone so aggressively macho, he was very handy about a kitchen.

‘You’re very resourceful with your cooking,’ she said, as he handed her a plate.

‘I have to be, in the parts of the world I spend most of my time.’ He loaded a fork with eggs. ‘Mind you, conditions aren’t that much better here. How does Samuel manage without a grill?’

Hetty shrugged.

‘And you’re obviously no budding Mrs Beeton, judging by what there was to cook with.’

‘Sorry about the sun-dried tomatoes.’ Her voice dripped sarcasm. ‘Somehow, I clean forgot to get any.’

He ignored the sarcasm and accepted the apology with a gracious nod. ‘I don’t suppose you could have got them locally, could you?’

Hetty gave up. ‘Actually, the village shop sells more or less everything except meat. They’re expensive, but very handy.’

‘Isn’t the butcher there any more? By the post office?’

‘The shop is the post office, and there’s no butcher.’

‘Ah. Shame.’

The combination of tension and whisky meant that Hetty couldn’t think of how to capitalize on this glimmer of sentiment for times past. But she stored it away for future use.

The following morning Caroline waltzed in, dressed to kill in leather trousers and a short jacket, which showed off her tiny waist and slim thighs. She flung her handbag on to the table, among the less aesthetic clutter. The village grapevine being as efficient as it was, Hetty wondered what had kept her away so long.

Caroline beamed at Connor. ‘Great car! Whose is it? And what is it?’

Hetty, not so car-minded as Caroline, hadn’t noticed that the car, parked in an empty stable, was anything special.

Connor gave Caroline a rare and splendid smile, transforming his been-round-the-block-a-few-times looks into something dangerously close to charm and sexiness. ‘It’s mine and it’s a Citroën DS Decapotable.’ Caroline was not only extremely attractive, she also said the right things.

‘Jack will die with envy when he sees it. He’s just gone away again, which is why I haven’t been over. So who are you?’ She directed her long-lashed gaze towards Connor. ‘Hetty obviously isn’t going to introduce us.’

She was right there. Once more, Hetty was trying to erase the word ‘Barbarian’ from her mind and replace it with Connor’s surname. She was having no luck.

‘Connor Barrabin,’ he said, his eyes crinkling with pleasure. ‘Who are you?’

While Caroline told him, an act that involved a lot of swishing of blonde hair from her, and a lot of crooked smiles and eye contact from him, Hetty cleared up the breakfast things. Unsurprisingly, she thought, his attitude to Caroline was as friendly as it had been hostile to Peter. Hetty felt displaced, both from the kitchen, which had been her territory, and from Connor’s attention. But Caroline couldn’t help flirting any more than she could help breathing. And Connor, obviously possessing a normal quota of male hormones, couldn’t help responding.

‘So, darling.’ Caroline turned her attention to Hetty. ‘Did Andy come?’

‘He’s putting the light back on upstairs as we speak. I hope.’

‘And you’ve got enough money to pay him? Otherwise I can easily . . .’

‘I’ve got plenty.’ Hetty didn’t want the M word used in front of Connor. He still didn’t know how many of his uncle’s things had been sold to raise it.

‘So what are you going to be doing with yourself all day?’ Caroline turned back to Connor.

‘Today, I’m going to visit Samuel. Then I’ve got a report to write.’

‘Let me know if Samuel’s well enough for non-family visitors. I’d love to pop in and see him. I met him at a village do – he’s such a sweet old boy.’

‘I’m sure a visit from you would cheer him up. I’ll let you know how he is. And, if possible, get some idea of when he’s coming out.’

Hetty didn’t know if she wanted him better or worse. If he came home, she might have to go, and then what on earth would she do with herself? She rinsed the bowls and put them to drain. ‘Anyone want a cup of coffee?’

‘Not for me,’ said Connor. ‘I must go. I’ve got to see the bank after I’ve seen Samuel. I’ll do some shopping while I’m in town, but I’m not sure when I’ll be back.’

He patted Hetty’s shoulder as he passed, appearing not to have noticed her jump when he said ‘bank’. Which bank?

Connor waved to Caroline. There was a moment’s silence after he left.

‘Mmm. He’s not at all bad, in a sort of caveman way. He might clean up very nicely.’

Hetty tried to put banks and loans to the back of her mind. There wasn’t anything she could do even if she knew which bank he was going to. ‘He’s a Barbarian,’ she said.

Caroline raised her eyebrows. ‘He hasn’t thrown you over his shoulder and carried you upstairs to bed, has he?’

‘No!’ said Hetty indignantly. ‘He’s just planning to pull the house down before Samuel’s cold in his grave!’

‘Pity,’ said Caroline, far too calmly.

‘Which is? That he hasn’t raped me, or that the house is going to be pulled down?’

‘I don’t think he’d ever need to rape anybody. I should think he’s quite subtle as a lover.’

‘So what? I wish you’d concentrate! I said he’s going to pull the house down. How can we stop him?’

Caroline shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose we can, if he’s dead set on it. When is he planning to do it?’

‘Not while Samuel’s alive, unless he’s terminally ill and not likely to come home. But he says the house is too far gone to save.’

‘It’s not, is it?’

Hetty shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s got a new roof and Andy doesn’t think it’s too bad. But perhaps we ought to get outside advice. Preferably before Connor has time to get back from town. You haven’t got the right sort of architect tucked away in your bag, have you?’

‘Sorry, no. But why the rush?’

‘Well, we can hardly get in an expert to evaluate the condition of his inheritance while Connor’s here, can we? If it’s bad news, we don’t want him to know.’

‘I suppose not.’ Caroline lapsed into silence. ‘I still think we could get round him, persuade him to change his mind.’

‘You might be able to. Don’t include me in your plans.’

‘You’ve never learnt how to manipulate men, have you?’

Hetty closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘No.’ She didn’t know whether she should be proud of herself or ashamed.

‘I’ll set up a course. You can be my first customer. Now, I must go and do something useful.’ She pushed herself off the table on to the floor. ‘I only called in to get a squint at the young master.’

‘You won’t say anything about Connor demolishing the house, will you? I don’t want people hearing and getting upset unnecessarily.’

‘Not if you don’t want me to. And Hetty, don’t get too upset yourself. We’ll get round Connor.’

‘Is that the Royal “we”, or do you mean me as well?’

Later that morning Hetty was looking through the Yellow Pages, searching for someone who might be able to come and tell her if the house was worth repairing or not, when Connor came home. He came in through the back door, his arms full of supermarket bags. ‘There’s more in the car,’ he said.

Hetty shut the phone book and went to get the shopping in. As she might have expected, his car was as battered as he was. It was old, possibly old enough to be considered classic, though Connor obviously didn’t treat it as such. It was a two-seater convertible with leather upholstery and a long bonnet. It looked as if it had once been at home speeding down to the South of France. Now, it had a bash in the driver’s door and badly needed a respray. Alistair’s Porsche, as she had last seen it, came into her mind. She knew that if she wanted to hurt Connor, she’d have to find another way of doing it.

She took the remaining bags, leaving a box full of bottles. Connor waved the phone at her as she came in. ‘It’s for you. Some woman.’

She took the phone, praying it wasn’t Phyllis Hempstead. She couldn’t tell her about Connor while he was listening. ‘Hello?’

‘Is that Hetty? It’s Felicity Makepiece. I spoke to your mother. About our ruby wedding celebrations?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Hetty found a pencil and prepared to make notes.

‘I do want to speak to you about that, but really why I’m ringing is to invite you to dinner.’

‘Oh! How kind.’

‘On the Thursday after next. Can you manage that?’

That was two days before they were due to open, but Hetty said, yes, of course.

Felicity Makepiece was just about to hang up, having confirmed that Hetty had a car and given her pages of directions, and many other items of extraneous information, when, in between breaths, she dropped a bombshell. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot.’ She laughed. ‘Rather fun! One of the young people who’ll be down for Easter. Says he knows you.’

‘Oh? Who is it?’

‘Alistair Gibbons.’

Hetty reeled for a few moments, coming to just in time to catch Mrs Makepiece before she rang off in a hail of ‘find a moment to talk about the ruby wedding’, and ‘looking forward to seeing you’s.

‘Can I bring someone?’

There was a moment’s pause. ‘Only if it’s a man, dear. I’ve already had enough trouble getting my numbers right.’

‘Oh – it is a man.’

‘That’ll be lovely. See you then, then. Byee.’