Barbara Erskine - Hiding From the Light

Peggy and Dan were late for lunch. When they followed Emma out onto the roof, Piers was ensconced on the swing seat with a pile of newspapers, the wine already opened, and a half-empty glass beside him on the table.

‘Sorry, darling, we couldn’t find anywhere to park.’ Peggy kissed Emma on the cheek and threw herself down on one of the cushioned chairs. Dan picked up the bottle, checked the ice-cold, clouded glass to see how much was left and began to pour. He was a stout, fresh-faced man with white short-cropped hair and vivid blue eyes. Having retired at fifty from the City, he had spent the last ten years in a new career as a wine importer, specialising in small, select vineyards known only to a very exclusive group of connoisseurs.

‘Not bad stuff.’ He topped up Piers’s glass after he had done the others. ‘Good year.’

‘I thought so.’ Piers folded his paper and put it aside. ‘So, how are you both?’

‘Good.’ Peggy grinned. ‘But our news is very boring. I want to hear yours. Did you go and visit the cottage yesterday?’ She looked from one to the other expectantly.

Piers scowled. ‘So, Em told you about it, did she?’

‘Emma rang to say you might go and see it.’ Peggy frowned. ‘I know she said you wouldn’t consider it, Piers, but –’

‘She said that too, did she?’ Piers stood up. He went to lean on the parapet. ‘Perhaps you would like to remind her of the fact, Peggy.’

‘Piers!’ Emma had followed them out onto the terrace with a bowl of olives in her hand. She shook her head. ‘Ma doesn’t want to be dragged into this. Nor does Dan.’

‘Dragged into what exactly?’ Dan sat down on the chair next to Peggy’s. He leaned forward expectantly, his elbows on his knees. ‘Come on. Tell me. What’s this all about?’

‘I went to see a cottage on my own as Piers wouldn’t come,’ Emma said, passing him an olive. ‘And I liked it a lot.’

There was a short silence.

‘So, you are going to see it too?’ Dan asked cautiously. He was looking at Piers.

‘No.’ Piers drained his glass. ‘And in spite of that fact, in spite of me saying I don’t want a cottage at the moment because we’re too busy and we can’t, actually, afford it, in spite of all that,’ he paused for dramatic effect, ‘she put in an offer.’

There was a profound pause, then Emma turned to him. ‘You may not be able to afford a cottage,’ she said quietly, ‘but as I told you last night, I can.’ There was a further moment’s awkward silence.

‘I’ve got the particulars here.’ She stood up and disappeared inside for a moment. When she returned she had a sheaf of estate agent’s details in her hand. ‘It probably doesn’t look that special on paper, but it is.’

‘Why don’t we all run down there and see it?’ Dan drained his glass and held it out to Piers for more as Peggy took the A4 sheets from her daughter and began to read them. ‘What about next weekend? It sounds like a fun excursion to me.’

‘For you, perhaps.’ Filling the glass, Piers put the bottle down and turned to lean over the railing, staring out across the rooftops. ‘If Emma wants this place, that’s up to her. I don’t and I see no point in wasting a day of my life trailing off to see it. If we bought a cottage I would want it to be in Normandy or Brittany. Not, I repeat not, in Essex.’

Emma shrugged. ‘So much for mutual discussion.’

He swung round. ‘Excuse me? What discussion did you engage in before you made an offer for this place, pray? You went knowing my views. And you decided to buy it knowing my views.’ His voice rose slightly.

Dan and Peggy glanced at each other. Peggy leaned forward and touching Emma’s arm she frowned and shook her head. ‘Let’s change the subject,’ she said softly. ‘I think you two need to talk about this on your own later. Come on, I’ll give you a hand in the kitchen.’ She led the way in through the doors.

Emma followed slowly. She had picked up the estate agent’s details from the chair upon which her mother had left them. ‘I have to have it,’ she said as they went through into the kitchen. ‘I don’t know why.’

Peggy turned. ‘You don’t know why?’ She scanned her daughter’s face.

Emma shook her head. ‘I made the offer because I was in a complete panic in case I lost it. It’s pretty, but not especially so. I’ve seen prettier. It’s not in particularly good condition. The garden is too big for a holiday cottage and Piers hates the idea. I should tear this up –’ she waved the papers in front of Peggy’s face – ‘and forget all about it. Even the estate agent thought I was mad.’

‘But?’ Peggy’s eyes were fixed on her face.

‘But! I couldn’t be rational about it. From the first moment I saw the ad in Country Life , I knew I was going to live there.’ She opened the fridge door and brought out a plate covered in foil. ‘Mummy, this is weird. I know it more than anyone.’

Peggy frowned thoughtfully. ‘You’re prepared to risk your relationship with Piers over this house?’

Her daughter nodded. She was near to tears.

‘Take a day off next week. I’ll come with you. Dan too, if you’ll let him. And we’ll go and see it again.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Emma looked up thoughtfully. ‘I’ll call in sick. I am sick!’ She looked round wildly, found a roll of kitchen paper sitting on the draining board, and tearing off a sheet she blew her nose. ‘Can you get someone to look after the shop?’

Peggy nodded. ‘I’ll ring Edward. He’s always willing to do a day there for me.’ Edward was her next-door neighbour, a retired colonel whose heart had been soundly broken when Dan had arrived on the scene.

‘Don’t tell Piers,’ Emma pleaded suddenly.

‘No. I won’t.’ Peggy sighed. ‘But I think you should, Emma. What you and Piers have here is too good to lose, sweetheart. It really is.’

Sunday morning

Mike had walked over to the church early. After the early fog it was a glorious day and he could smell new-mown grass from the churchyard where Bill Standing, in his job as groundsman, had been trimming round some of the old graves. A retired professional gardener, Bill liked nothing more than to mow the grass and trim the hedges, training the cascades of rambling roses which grew over the lych gate and across the wall into a glorious patchwork of pink and red. He denied, however, having had anything to do with the mowing in the rectory garden, and had, to Mike’s certain knowledge, never set foot inside the church itself. To Mike, this last information had been an amazing piece of news. He didn’t understand it at all, especially as the old man seemed so fond of the place. Mike stopped at the gate and raised his hand in greeting. One day he would love to talk at length to the old boy, who, he suspected, was a fount of local knowledge and wisdom, and ask him why he wouldn’t go into the church, but so far his attempts to engage Bill in conversation had met with little success.

Bill had been staring down towards the estuary, a worried frown on his face. Mike followed his gaze. There was nothing to see but the bright strip of water and a few wheeling gulls. As Mike watched he shook his head thoughtfully and turned away. The expression on his face was grim. Mike paused and called his name. Bill glanced up, nodded, and turning the mower trundled it off in the opposite direction. Mike shrugged and paused to glance round the churchyard instead. The weathered headstones were mostly illegible now. The salt-laden east winds off the estuary had long ago beaten the inscriptions into indecipherable lichen-crusted anonymity, but there was a quiet warmth in the shelter of an August morning which made it seem a good place to lie in peace.