Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

L uca

I stand on the spot where the taxi from the station dropped me, unable to move for a few minutes. The front gates of Larchdown House are impressive. They've rusted over time but are still solid enough—a heavy chain and padlock bind them. Beyond, I can see the long and rather overgrown drive up to the house, which looks dark and gloomy like unoccupied houses do. It looks familiar—like the house I remember—and yet also strange, as if it has an air of sadness. It suits my mood. I hope one of the keys I have on the bunch given to me by the solicitor fits the padlock, or it'll be a long trip home. Though, I remember there is at least one other entrance to the grounds.

There is a suitable key and, with a bit of persuasion because of the rust, the padlock falls open. I leave it and the chain on the ground. I don't dare lock it back up in case it never opens again, and make a mental note to get some oil, or maybe another padlock.

If I need to lock it again, that is. The thought that I might not lock it is a surprise to me. Surely I'll go back home at some point. I'm only here to see what to do with the house, and to lie low until the press move on to some other scandal.

It's not like I have anything to go back to. Another unbidden thought.

Yes I do! There's Anna, and there is . . . Anna. That's it. I don't have any other friends—none who aren't connected to Claude, anyway. Ah. The studio. But then I have no career, no art.

So no, nothing to go back for. A wave of panic threatens to engulf me, and I can feel the dizziness rising. I will not let this beat me. I hold onto the gates until I feel it pass, willing myself to take the first step up the drive. And then the next, and then the next. As I walk, the tension in my shoulders begins to ease, despite the two bags of things I've brought with me. The overgrown drive greets me, and I notice the grounds resemble a jungle. I can hear nothing—no, that isn't true—I can hear birds, and the breeze in the trees. What I can't hear is traffic, people, aeroplanes, machinery, and all the other cacophony of noise that you hear in London twenty-four hours a day. No one's shouting, no horns beeping, no children playing. It feels good—really good. I let out a big breath. Then inhale one, smelling the woody, earthy, clean air. I smile, something I haven't done for days. The drive opens out into a large circle that goes right round, past the steps of the house. There's a statue erupting from an overgrown lawn in the centre of the circle. I stand at the edge and stare up at the house. It's red brick and three stories high, with a slate roof and several tall chimneys. It's not a massive country house with wings, where you can rattle around for days seeing no one else, but it is too large to be called a cottage. A plant, which must have once tastefully grown up the walls has run wild, and I can see a couple of windows covered by it.

Beep!

Fuck . I spin round and see a van behind me on the drive. I'm standing directly in its path. A guy hangs his head out of the window.

"This Larchdown House?"

"Err, yes."

"Delivery for Mr Winterton."

Before leaving London, I'd ordered a coffee machine, as I knew that Aunt Frances wouldn't have had one. She'd been a tea drinker as far as I could recall. There are many things I can live without, but coffee isn't one of them, and I couldn't have carried my machine all the way on the train.

Anyway, I'll need that for when I go home. No, I'm not thinking of that again. It might bring on a panic attack.

"Great, can you leave it on the steps?" I indicate the front steps and move out of his way as he speeds past, jumps out, and places the parcel down. He's already in his van and driving past me with a cheery wave before I've walked halfway across the overgrown circle.

Unlocking the door, I dump my bags in the large hallway and retrieve the parcel. Unpacking can wait—I need coffee. Given that the house hasn't been lived in for a few years, it isn't as dirty as I thought it might be. Dusty yes, but it had obviously been looked after well prior to Aunt Frances moving into a home. The kitchen is large, with exposed beams, and there are a range of modern units and a central island where I remember an old oak table used to stand. I flick the light switch—good, there's electricity. I probably need to get it looked at, but hopefully for now I won't blow myself up with the coffee machine. Once it's plugged in and making its usual comforting noises, I take a look around. There's some cleaning stuff in one of the cupboards, which is good, because I'm not sure when I'm going to be able to get supplies. It's a long walk back to the village, and I don't have a car. I can drive, but I haven't for several years as I didn't need a car in London. I'm not sure how comfortable I am getting one now either, but I need to be able to get to the village, and walking all the time will be a pain. I remember that Aunt Frances hadn't driven, though she'd had a live-in housekeeper who cooked and cleaned and chauffeured her about. I'm just musing on having my own live-in help, and how he'll be tall and rugged and strong, when the machine beeps that my coffee is ready.

Ah well, a guy can dream. That I can think of anyone in that way—someone who isn't Claude—surprises me, even if he is just a fantasy guy. And that cheers me up.

After a few sips of coffee, I feel ready to look at the rest of the house. First, I send Anna a quick text that I've arrived okay. As well as a kitchen and utility room, the ground floor has a washroom with shower, a dining room, a study, and two living rooms—one at both the front and back of the house. A wide staircase in the large hall leads to the first floor, where there are several bedrooms and a couple of bathrooms. A smaller staircase leads upwards where there are a few more rooms—mostly storage and bedrooms. And my old room.

It's with some trepidation that I push open the door. The room looks exactly how I left it, even though it's over six years since I've been in it. It's like my nineteen-year-old self has just stepped out. A little dusty, but it's been preserved and cleaned regularly. There's a narrow bed, the desk where I had sat, read, and drawn, the wardrobe, the chest of drawers which I'd painted in bright colours. I catch sight of the sketches on the wall. Sketches I'd done of the house, the grounds and Aunt Frances herself—some face studies, but also ones of her working in the garden, laughing. A fledgling artist, full of hopes, dreams and possibilities. When drawing had been a joy and something I lived for, when it felt as natural as taking a breath.

Now, looking at them, it feels like I'm drowning—something else in my lungs where air should be. I no longer know joy, just a heaviness in my chest and senses dulled to numbness. I know I can no longer claim this room as my own. I shut the door on the hopes and dreams that have gone sour and head back downstairs. Avoiding the room I know Aunt Frances had used, I take the large one next to it with picture windows that look out over the gardens.

Unpacking my two bags doesn't take long—I really only brought clothes and toiletries. I'm not planning on staying long, just enough to decide what to do with the place. At the bottom of my bag is a sketchpad and pencils I'd put there on a whim. They sit there passively, accusing me. I leave them in the bag and kick it under the bed.