Do not disturb, p.1
Do Not Disturb, page 1
Claire Douglas
* * *
DO NOT DISTURB
Contents
Wednesday, 25 October 2017
Part One: BEFORE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part Two: AFTER
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Do Not Disturb Reading Group Questions
Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
For Mum, who passed on to me her love of books.
‘Oh, What a tangled web we weave When first we practise to deceive!’
Sir Walter Scott
Wednesday, 25 October 2017
I’m awoken by a shrill scream. Something’s happened to the girls. I sit up in bed, my heart racing. The air is still. Silent. Did I dream it? My eyes dart to Adrian’s side of the bed. It’s empty, the sheet creased and slightly damp, the duvet thrown back as though he left in a hurry. Where is he? My alarm clock shows 5.37 a.m. and, through a crack in the curtains, the sky is still dark, the tips of the mountains disappearing into early-morning mist.
I fumble for my dressing-gown, which I’d thrown across the foot of the bed the night before. I pull it on as I hurry from the room. Across the landing, the door to the girls’ room is closed. I’m just about to go to it when I hear the scream again.
There’s no mistaking it this time. It sounds like my mother.
I race down the first flight of stairs, trying to quell my rising panic. My mother isn’t the type of woman to scream. I think about the guests ensconced in their rooms, knowing she must have woken them, too, and, despite the circumstances, I worry about upsetting them.
When I reach the top of the second flight I stop in my tracks. I blink, hoping my eyes are playing tricks on me, but the image remains. The hallway below is shrouded in darkness but it looks as though Mum is crouched over a body, its limbs spread-eagled on the refurbished Victorian tiles. I can see the flash of a pale calf, a slim wrist. I can hear Mum groaning.
It doesn’t look like a child. The legs are too long.
It’s not one of the girls. Thank God.
‘Mum?’
Her head shoots up at the sound of my voice, her eyes wide with anguish and something else – fear. She holds up her hands, as though she’s about to pray. They’re coated with blood.
Part One
* * *
BEFORE
1
August 2017 – two months before
The girls are unusually quiet in the back seat. From the rear-view mirror I see them gazing out of the window as the scenery unfolds before them: the built-up suburbs with graffiti-stained high-rises and cluttered roads transforming into rolling hills, valleys and mountains. Amelia’s expression is morose, as though she’s harbouring thoughts of murdering both me and her father for taking her away from her friends. Evie, on the other hand, is more serene, dreamy as she takes in the road signs in English and Welsh. My six-year-old has always had a vivid imagination. She’ll see this as an adventure, try to seek out the magic in it. She believes in fairies, Father Christmas and the Easter bunny. She sees animal shapes in the clouds, four-leaf clovers that aren’t there, a face in the moon.
Amelia, five years older, is more sceptical. Her sensitivity announces itself in different ways. As soon as you enter a room she’ll feel your mood and behave accordingly. At least, she used to. Not so much now that the hormones have kicked in. She’s no longer so eager to please. Adrian and I have tried to hide how badly the last eighteen months have affected us, but she’s more astute than Evie. She won’t have failed to notice the strain we’ve been under. But, even so, she can’t really understand why we’ve decided to leave London. There have been occasions, in the preceding weeks, when I’ve had the same thought.
We hadn’t planned to move back to Wales. Not yet, anyhow. Buying a guesthouse in the Brecon Beacons had been a long-held ambition of mine. Something to daydream about while I toiled at my dead-end job in marketing, or when I was on maternity leave, surrounded by nappies and wet wipes. The Brecons held fond memories for me, of picnics in the foothills, of family days out, my brother, Nathan, and I bickering in the car, our dad barking at us good-naturedly. Of home-made egg sandwiches and milky tea from a flask. Of Frisbees. Of those hills and mountains that seemed to go on for ever. When I was a kid they always reminded me of the drawings in the Mr Men books, they were so perfect – they seemed worlds away from where we lived in Cardiff.
Moving to Wales and running a guesthouse was something we imagined we’d do in the future, when both girls were at university, when we were in our late forties or early fifties and had had enough of our cramped terraced house and frantic city living. Then, suddenly, the idea of fresh air and peace became more appealing, more urgent. A gentler pace of life, a quiet spot for Adrian to write – which he’s always wanted to do – and a safe haven for the girls, away from all the distractions and temptations of London.
In the distance I can see the glint of sunshine beneath the clouds, beckoning us. I reach over and squeeze Adrian’s hand. He returns the gesture and I flick a glance in his direction. He looks happy and relaxed. He’s grown a beard and his hair is longer, now touching the collar of his blue polo shirt. There is nothing left of his City persona. He shed the smart suits and the clean-shaven look as soon as he walked out of his job. But there are other changes too. The old Adrian would be trying to coax excitement out of Amelia right now. He’d be fiddling with the radio and singing along to Absolute 90s or playing I Spy with Evie, rolling his eyes when she pretended to spot a unicorn or a pixie. Instead he’s staring at the road ahead, the radio switched off. He’s calm and content in his own way. Just … different.
But at least he’s here.
I want him to reassure me that we’ve made the right decision in leaving. That Amelia won’t hate me for ever. That it will all turn out for the best.
Anxiety curdles in the pit of my stomach. In all my fantasies of running a business in the place I love the most, I never envisaged I’d have to do it with my mother.
‘Kirsty?’ I’m jolted out of my thoughts by Adrian’s voice. ‘When is Carol expected to turn up?’ It’s as though he’s read my mind. We used to joke about that. Before. How we always seemed to know what the other was thinking.
‘Um, next month, I think.’ I change gear as we head into the national park, the SUV juddering over the cattle grid. I notice Evie sit up straighter, and I know she’s hoping to see wild ponies clustered at the side of the road, as we did the last time we visited.
‘Next month?’ he says incredulously.
‘She said something about waiting until the house is more habitable.’
‘So, not until the renovations are done, then.’ He’s laughing as he says it, to take the sting out of his words.
‘She did up plenty of houses with my dad before he died.’
‘Yeah. Over twenty years ago.’
‘Her DIY is a lot better than mine.’ I’m nettled that he’s so easily putting her down. I’m allowed to say what I want about her, but he isn’t. Despite her faults my mother is one of the most capable, practical people I know.
‘Great. Then what’s she waiting for?’ He laughs. ‘Tell her to get here pronto! We’ll need all the help we can get.’
Hasn’t she done enough? I want to ask, but I don’t. I’m trying not to feel resentful that we were forced to eat into our savings after Adrian left his job. It wasn’t his fault. And it was kind of Mum to agree to come in with us. Her money means we could buy the house and carry out the restoration. Going into business with her wouldn’t have been my first choice, but now we have, we must make it work.
We first saw the Old Rectory six months ago.
We’d been on a family holiday in Brecon, driving through those mountains I had so admired as a child. Adrian was shrivelled up in the passenger seat, still shell-shocked from all that had happened, as if he were a war veteran or disaster survivor. We were still tentative with each other, like lovers who had been apart for many years and were getting to know each other again. The mist was like dry ice, nudging the hills and draping itself over the mountains in the distance. The land was spread out in front of us in varying shades of green, our road zigzagging through it. There wasn’t another soul for miles.
It was when we were on the edge of a little village called Hywelphilly that we saw it: a double-fronted Victorian detached house, almost Gothic, with its pointed roof gables and arched windows. Set back from the road, next to a beautiful old church, and framed by mountains in the distance, it had a ‘For Sale’ sign propped up in
I pulled on to the kerb, blocking the driveway with its rusty iron gates, to get a better look. Weeds protruded through the cracked tarmac and a large oak almost obscured one of the windows. Adrian must have been thinking along similar lines because when he turned to me, his eyes were bright. For the first time in ages he looked excited.
We arranged a viewing for the next day, and as the four of us followed the estate agent through the crumbling, neglected house, the anticipation hummed between us.
‘It’s a bit creepy,’ Evie said, as we stood on the threadbare landing carpet. She stared up at the ceiling as if expecting a ghoul to descend from the attic.
‘And it has a weird smell,’ offered Amelia.
But I was convinced it was what we needed. A project. A change of direction for Adrian. A distraction. For all of us.
Now we stand in the front driveway and look up at the house, horror dawning. It’s going to need a lot more work than I remember. Not for the first time the weight of what we’ve undertaken threatens to crush me.
‘Are we really going to be living in that?’ Amelia asks, wrinkling her nose as she surveys the holes in the roof, the boarded-up windows, the ivy that spreads up the walls, like unruly facial hair. The builders have already begun on the roof and scaffolding has been erected, although there’s no sign of any workers.
‘Not yet,’ I assure her. ‘We’re going to be staying in the flat we’ve rented at the other end of the village. Remember?’
‘Great,’ she mutters, folding her arms across her skinny chest. ‘Cramped in some dumb flat for the summer.’
‘It’ll be fun,’ pipes up Evie. ‘We get to share a room.’
‘And the thrills keep coming,’ Amelia deadpans.
I ignore her cheek, deciding to cut her some slack today of all days. Instead I enthuse about the huge garden, reminding Amelia that I’d agreed to buy them a trampoline – they’ve been pestering me about one for the last year but there wasn’t the space at our old house. ‘And we can get those rabbits you’ve always wanted, Evie,’ I promise. She jumps up and down with glee.
Adrian throws an arm around me. Although it’s August, there’s a chill in the air and I move closer to him, glad of the embrace. Before it happened, Adrian was very affectionate. I secretly thought – somewhat guiltily – too much so. Always wanting to hold my hand, touch the back of my head, or my knee when I was driving. I used to feel embarrassed in front of the girls or our friends if he nuzzled the side of my neck when I was cooking. I’d come from an undemonstrative family – the most I ever got from my mother was a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. And then the touching had stopped and I missed it. Now I reach around his waist and pull him closer to me, resting my head on his shoulder.
‘I’m never going to get used to the pronunciation of this place.’ Adrian laughs.
‘What – “the Old Rectory”?’ scoffs Amelia.
‘Don’t be facetious. You know what your dad means,’ I say.
‘Stupid Welsh words,’ mumbles Amelia, prodding the ground with the toe of her lilac Supagas.
‘It’s easy – Hywelphilly. Pronounced Howell Filly,’ I say, rolling the Ls, liking the way the language feels in my mouth. When we first met, Adrian delighted in my accent. He’d make me pronounce long Welsh words over and over again, and stared at me in awe as I said them with ease. He’d try to copy but they sounded like bizarre tongue-twisters coming from his lips.
‘Can you speak Welsh, Mummy?’ asks Evie, looking at me with her wide blue eyes.
‘Of course.’
‘Will we learn to speak Welsh?’ Evie asks. ‘I want to talk like you.’
Amelia looks as though she can’t think of anything worse.
I move away from Adrian and cuddle Evie, kissing her soft blonde hair. She looks kooky in her clashing colours: a red-and-yellow-spotted tunic with pink leggings and green frog wellies. Over her head I notice that Amelia moves away before I can coax her into a group hug.
‘Come on, then,’ says Adrian, heading back to the car. ‘We’d better get the keys for the flat.’
We troop behind him, my gaze following Amelia. Her head is bent and her arms are folded around herself. She’s shivering slightly in her thin hoody. I want to grab her and hold her close, reassure her that everything will be okay, that I love her. But she gets into the car before I can catch up with her. She’ll cheer up once she gets used to living here.
We drive through the village in silence, each of us taking in the ornate arched bridge, the hills and mountains of the Brecons in the distance, the green parks and fields of sheep, the cobbled high street with its shops, and the only pub, the Seven Stars, which overlooks the River Usk.
Although I’ve never lived here before, I feel as if I’ve come home.
2
A month before
My mother turns up on a Saturday at the end of September, less than four weeks before we’re due to open. I spot her from the living-room window climbing out of a taxi, smart in black trousers and heeled boots. She always dresses as if she’s about to go into an office, even though she retired eight years ago. She still has a good figure, trim and tidy, as my dad would have said, with auburn hair and bright blue eyes that are occasionally twinkly, regularly disapproving and often judgemental. I glance down at my own baggy cardigan and shapeless T-shirt, and brush the dust from my faded jeans. It fogs the air in front of me, causing me to cough. Mum once observed, disparagingly, that I like to ‘dress for comfort’.
I reach for my inhaler and take a few puffs, then return it to my pocket. I always have one on me. Without it I panic: as a teenager, a severe asthma attack had kept me in hospital for days. I’m relieved that, so far, I haven’t spotted any symptoms in my daughters.
I can feel Adrian’s disapproving gaze on me even though I can’t see him. He’s behind me, painting the living-room door satin white. He’s said before that I’m too reliant on the inhaler, that overuse isn’t good for me because it contains steroids.
‘Mum’s arrived,’ I announce, mainly to distract him. I move away from the window, resisting the urge to flick a duster around the room.
I want to laugh at the alarm on Adrian’s face. I know he’s also worrying that she’ll be disappointed with our progress. We’ve been in Hywelphilly for more than a month but only moved into the Old Rectory yesterday. We’ve done so much, though – knocking some rooms into others to make them bigger, incorporating en-suites, fixing the roof, restoring the geometric black-and-white Victorian tiles in the hallway, and we’ve divided the attic space into three bedrooms and a bathroom for us to live in so that we’re separate from the guests. But there’s still so much to do before we open to the public: painting, sanding, waxing and sourcing furniture. At the thought, my stress levels rise.
The doorbell rings and I realize that Adrian and I have been staring at each other in mild panic. He has paint on his clothes, in his beard and on his cheek. I laugh nervously. ‘Brace yourself.’
‘The Wicked Witch of the West,’ jokes Adrian, the name Nathan and I gave Mum as kids after watching The Wizard of Oz. He steps off the ladder, paintbrush in hand, and follows me into the hallway.
‘We only ever called her that when she was in one of her moods,’ I say, feeling disloyal. I throw open the door to see her standing on the step, a suitcase at her feet.
‘Kirsty. Adrian.’ She nods at us in turn. And then, ‘This door needs sanding and painting. It’s not exactly welcoming, is it? I think we need to buy a new one.’
I bite back my irritation. The door is beautiful, Victorian with stained-glass inserts of pink roses. I’ve already decided I’m going to paint it Hicks Blue by Little Greene. There’s no way I’d change it. ‘Hello to you, too,’ I say.
She gives me one of her trademark looks and steps over the threshold.
‘We haven’t got round to painting it yet. But we will,’ I add. ‘I have just the colour in mind.’
