A home from home, p.2
A Home From Home, page 2
His grandmother, Diana, would have said somebody’s walked over your grave. Alarmed, he wondered if she was all right. He knew the home would ring him if something happened to her. He was the first point of contact, after all, as there wasn’t much point in them calling his mother in Pondicherry. Or was it Comporta? He couldn’t keep up with Lydia’s itinerary these days. She was very much in demand, bending people into impossible positions and gently anointing their temples with scented balm until they reached a state of bliss.
His phone began to chirrup and he stared at it across the workbench, wondering if this was the call he constantly dreaded; if the shivery feeling was presaging bad news about Diana. He lunged over the workbench and snatched it up, staring at the screen.
Lola.
‘Hi,’ he answered, relieved.
‘Hey,’ she said. She sounded anxious. ‘Listen, the shoot’s overrunning. I’m so sorry. One of the other models was late and we’ve only just started. There’s no way I’ll be finished until late.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Well, don’t worry. I can pick Plum up.’
‘Are you sure? I can ask the nursery to keep her?’
‘No. I don’t mind. You know I don’t.’
He never minded being with his daughter. He would be with her every minute of the day if he could, but work was a necessity, not a luxury. They shared her care between each other and weekday mornings at Squirrel Nutkin’s nursery. Sometimes their system ran smoothly; sometimes it didn’t, like today. But when you were freelance, you had to be flexible and you had to compromise. For Gabriel and Lola, it was vital that it was never Plum who was compromised.
‘You’re a legend. You know that, right? I don’t deserve you.’
‘No, you don’t.’ He was laughing. ‘You owe me.’
‘I’m sorry. I know you’re behind on your commissions. I’ll have her at the weekend if you want to catch up?’
‘The weekends are for the three of us,’ he said firmly. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll grab Plum and hang out with her this afternoon. Do your thing.’
He heard her give him a squeaky kiss and grinned. As he hung up, he could imagine her leaning against the bare brick of some studio wall, swathed in a scrap of silk that would command a huge price tag, her hair tamed into glossy curls, her feet in impossibly high heels. She looked so terrifyingly unapproachable in her photos, but he knew the truth about her soft heart; how she sometimes felt that her perfect body was a curse.
‘Only it’s not perfect, is it?’ she’d said to him through tears, the last time the test had been negative.
‘Shh,’ he consoled her. ‘We have to give it time.’
‘But we don’t have time! I never seem to be here. We completely missed our chance last month because I was away.’
‘Don’t get upset.’ Gabriel hated seeing her so distressed.
‘Plum’s three! Soon she’ll be too old for a little brother or sister.’
‘No, she won’t. She’ll love it whatever. Whenever it comes along.’
‘What if it doesn’t happen?’
‘It will.’
It was his job to reassure her, because she was convinced it was her fault, that it was all down to her punishing work schedule and diet and exercise regime. The fact she had got pregnant almost straight away with Plum didn’t seem to console her.
‘I shouldn’t have gone back to work so quickly afterwards,’ she said. ‘I’ve probably screwed up my body by having to lose all that baby weight.’
‘It could just as easily be my fault,’ Gabriel said, but she looked doubtful.
There was nothing else he could do or say except try to keep their lives as stress-free as possible. But it was difficult, when he was still trying to establish himself. No matter how many hours he put in, he had to make enough to cover the rent and his overheads and materials before he put any food on the table. Lola could make in a day what Gabriel made in a week. She insisted she didn’t mind, generous as she was.
‘It’s only fair,’ she said. ‘I’m living my dream. It’s time for you to live yours.’
He was making headway, but maybe he would never be well-known enough for people to pay four figures for one of his knives. It was possible, if you were at the top of your trade. And he had a good following. He was friends with enough chefs he’d worked with when he was a restaurant manager. A business like his thrived on word of mouth.
Lola had been brilliant at helping him with the publicity. She’d taken a ream of photos of him at work, sparks flying, bare-chested and in skin-tight leather trousers. The pictures were pure Instagram gold: the steel knives juxtaposed against his sweating torso, the trademark angel-with-a-halo tattoo on his right shoulder, his long dark hair tied back with a bandana, his dark eyes scorched into his face. Of course, he didn’t usually work topless – it was far too dangerous – but you never let truth get in the way of a good picture when it came to PR, Lola said. He’d been a bit embarrassed by the whole thing, but if Lola knew anything it was how to exploit your looks to sell things.
‘I want people to buy my knives because they’re the best, not because you’ve somehow made me look like a rock star,’ he protested. She laughed.
‘Gabe – you’re smoking hot. Use it. It’s great free publicity.’
She was right. There was a ripple of magazine articles in food magazines and Saturday supplements, and an uplift in orders he was now trying to fill. In the meantime, Lola was working as hard as ever.
Was that why nothing had happened still, after nearly a year? Was it too much pressure for her?
He hadn’t time to reflect on it now. He didn’t even have time to clean himself up properly. He would usually shower before going anywhere near Plum, washing all the sweat and dirt and grime down the plughole. He took off his protective clothing, peeled off his T-shirt and did a strip wash in the big sink, sluicing it all away as best he could, towelling himself off then sliding his T-shirt back on again.
He picked up his jacket, phone and keys and made sure everything was turned off. He only had half an hour to get to Squirrel Nutkin’s. He grabbed his bike: it was black, fleet and light, designed to cut through city traffic, and on the front was Plum’s seat, so he could curl himself round her while cycling. He had never liked the idea of her on a seat behind him.
He shut and locked the door, wheeling his bike out into the cobbled street outside.
‘You’re off early.’ Heidi, one of the twins from the bakery next door to his workshop, greeted him.
‘Yeah. Lola’s shoot’s running late. I’ve got to go and pick up Plum.’
‘Hang on two seconds.’ She opened the bakery door and the scent of vanilla flooded out. She came out moments later with a little box. ‘Blackberry and apple turnover.’
‘Oh.’ Gabriel was touched. He bought a lot of things from them, because of Plum’s allergies. There was a code amongst the arches tenants that they didn’t expect discounts from each other, nor did they have any obligation to buy things from each other, but most of them helped each other out. Heidi and Helga often gave him little treats if they had things left over.
‘Have you seen the letter?’ Heidi looked grave.
‘Letter?’ Gabriel thought guiltily of the untouched pile of post in the workshop.
‘From the landlord. He’s putting the rent up.’
‘Oh, you’re kidding.’ This was a disaster. The rent was already monstrous, but he had fallen in love with Rockham Arches. The only alternative had been an anonymous unit on an industrial estate.
‘Yep. He’s putting it up more than ten per cent. We’re going to have to do some serious thinking.’
Gabriel looked alarmed. He adored Heidi and Helga.
‘Don’t go. I can’t survive without you here.’
‘We can’t make a profit if the rent goes up.’
‘Well, no. Nor me.’ He made a face.
‘Apparently they’ve got a waiting list as long as your arm for units. People are queuing up.’
‘Shit.’ The world wasn’t short of people with dreams, it seemed. He looked down gloomily at Heidi and Helga’s entwined initials on the cake box: their dream. ‘Thanks for this. Plum will love it.’
Gabriel went back to his workshop and dug out the letter from the landlord from the pile of unopened post, stuffing it into his pocket to read and digest later. He left with a heavy heart.
Rockham Arches was his spiritual home, shared with a bunch of like-minded people all striving to make a better life for themselves and to share their skills and talents. As well as Heidi and Helga’s bakery, there was a craft brewery, a bloke who did MOTs and repairs on vintage cars, a bike shop … all of them knew everything there was to know about their industry and worked tirelessly. It was tough to be a success in this day and age, but it was possible, if you put in the hours and took the risks.
He loved it here, he thought, as he pushed his bike along the cobbles outside the railway arches. He loved the industrial architecture and the notion of creating something new from somewhere old, and most of all he loved the sense of community amongst the other tenants. There was always someone around to give you a hand or make a brew. They shared each other’s passions and dreams; swapped notes and gave each other advice. There was no sense of competition, just camaraderie. When someone made a big sale or got a new contract or won an award, there was a celebration.
He reached the main road, then pulled on his helmet, swung himself into the saddle and insinuated his way into the afternoon traffic. There was no such thing as rush hour any more; it was constant chaos. The journey home would take him at least an hour if he drove, but on a bike you had the advantage of being able to weave round stationary cars or slink down rat runs. With a fair wind behind him, he’d be at Squirrel Nutkin’s in less than twenty minutes.
3
Tabitha had hardly got used to the heat of her bath water when she heard the knocker go on the front door. She was tempted to ignore it. She wasn’t expecting anyone or anything and nor was Gum, as far as she knew. She was about to disappear under the water and make it go away when it sounded again, even more urgent, and she could hear Poe barking in the kitchen.
She climbed out, grabbed a towel, wrapped it around her and made her way down the wider front staircase that led to the hall, being careful not to slip. She tugged at the door, which always stuck, especially after a warm summer. She stood in the doorway, her hair still dripping. There was a man standing there with a distressed look on his face.
She was on her guard immediately. She’d heard about scams where people feigned an emergency, bluffing their way into your home. Though he didn’t look like your average con artist. He didn’t look furtive or shifty. He was tall, with dark hair swept back off his face, a smattering of stubble and very thick straight eyebrows, dressed in jeans, a pale-brown sweater and waxed boots that, judging by their cleanliness, had been bought in London, not at the local feed merchants.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, and his voice was cracked with emotion. ‘It happened so quickly. There was nothing I could do—’
‘Poe?’ she said. ‘He’s in the kitchen.’
As if on cue, Poe began to bark again.
‘Oh God.’ His dark eyebrows closed together. ‘I didn’t mean the dog. The police are there, and the ambulance. I’m so sorry. His truck just …’ He indicated a sweeping motion with his hand. ‘He cut right in front of me.’ Tabitha was staring at him, trying to make sense of what he was saying. ‘Your great-uncle. Somebody said … he’s your great-uncle?’
Tabitha just stood there, clutching her towel. ‘Gum?’
‘He must have had a heart attack or maybe a stroke. I’m so sorry.’
‘Is he … going to be OK?’
‘I don’t know. I really don’t. He was unconscious. They’ve taken him to the hospital.’
‘How am I going to get there?’ Her face crumpled. ‘He took the truck. I don’t have … I’ll have to take the bike.’
‘That’ll take hours.’
‘Motorbike,’ she corrected him. It was a vintage Indian which Gum had bought when he was at university, to get him to Cambridge and back. Restoring it was an ongoing project for both of them but they hadn’t touched it for months.
‘Look, I’m very happy to take you. Why don’t you go and get dry and dressed?’
It was then she noticed the silver car. Low-slung, a long bonnet. Again, a London car. Not built for pitted tracks and potholes.
‘I can manage,’ she said. ‘Where did it happen? Are the police still there?’
But as she spoke, she could feel herself unravelling. She began to tremble. She couldn’t control it. Her teeth were chattering. She was going to cry. In her towel, in front of a strange man.
‘I think you might be in shock.’ He reached out a hand to touch her. She jerked out of the way.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You can’t ride a motorbike in your state.’
She flashed him a glance. ‘I’m a good rider. And it’ll get there faster than that.’ She nodded at his car.
‘I think you need someone with you. Please let me take you.’
His voice was firm. Tabitha stared at him. No one would usually dare suggest she needed looking after. Nobody who knew her, anyway. Her default reaction was to tell him to leave her alone. But she stopped herself. He wasn’t being patronising, he was being kind. She was frightened. And she didn’t know what to do. Maybe she did need someone with her.
And to be honest, despite her protestations, she wasn’t sure if there was enough petrol in the bike, or even if it would start.
‘OK,’ she said grudgingly. ‘Thank you.’
It felt strange, to relent like that.
He nodded. ‘I’m Dash, by the way,’ he said. ‘Dash Culbone.’
She looked at him.
‘Culbone?’ she said sharply.
He looked taken aback.
‘Is that a problem?’
She gave an impatient huff. ‘Surely you don’t have to ask?’
One quizzical eyebrow twitched. ‘You’re worried about something that happened over a hundred years ago?’
She glared. ‘Your family tried to buy this place right after my great-aunt died.’
‘Oh.’ He nodded a concession. ‘I think it was a fair price. Market value.’
‘You were taking advantage of a vulnerable old man.’
He sighed. ‘It was only an offer. Let’s try for a temporary truce, given the circumstances.’
She hesitated. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’d really appreciate a lift. I’ll be five minutes. You better come in.’
She stood to one side to let him come past her and into the hall.
‘Let me make you some tea while you change.’
He was, thought Tabitha, one of those practical types who likes to take charge. Under any other circumstances she’d get shot of him as quickly as she could. But, right now, she needed him.
‘The kitchen’s through there.’ She pointed to a doorway at the back of the hall. ‘Very strong with just a splash of milk.’
And with that, she ran up the stairs.
Dash had never been in a kitchen like it. It ran the length of the back of the house, with a vaulted ceiling, walls the colour of Dijon mustard and a flagstone floor. The units were ancient, circa 1974, in burgundy Formica, and several of the doors were falling off their hinges – the kitchen was even worse than the one at Rushbrook. Faded red-velvet curtains framed the three sash windows looking out onto the orchard at the back, and in front of them was a table covered in a snow-white tablecloth embroidered with birds and flowers. A pewter candelabra took centre stage, a lifetime of late nights pooling down its sides in waxen stalactites. A basket held a pile of silver cutlery with pale bone handles.
Every drawer seemed to be open; everywhere you looked, someone was in the middle of something. An old Singer sewing machine had a dress still clamped in it, as if the person sewing it up had just walked away. A loaf of bread sat on the side with two slices sawn from it. Next to it was a large jar of eggs floating in pale liquid, like something from a Victorian science lab. There was a rocking horse in the far corner which seemed to be used to hold coats. Clothes hung from a drying rack: two pairs of country corduroy trousers and a tattersall shirt which must belong to Matthew Melchior. Several towels. And a hot-pink bra. It was chaotic and shambolic and a potential health hazard.
Dash looked for the kettle. He found one so ancient it wouldn’t be out of place in a museum. He filled it and plugged it in cautiously – if this was his house, the first thing he would do was have the place rewired – then rifled through all the tins on the shelf until he found some PG Tips.
It felt a million miles from his bachelor pad overlooking Tower Bridge. All he’d had there was a steel-grey linen sofa and a coffee table and a telly, because he was hardly ever at home. He was either working late or travelling. All that was behind him now. As of this week, he was a country bumpkin. No more Addison Lee coming to pick up him at 5 a.m.
He shivered a little. This afternoon was not an auspicious beginning to his new life. He stood by the window to compose himself while the kettle boiled. He might seem calm and unruffled, but what had happened had deeply upset him.
The truck had come from nowhere as he rounded the corner. He knew he wasn’t going too fast because he was still re-familiarising himself with the country lanes. Sometimes they were so narrow that his car sensors beeped frantically, the hedges either side reaching out to scratch his paintwork. He wasn’t doing much over twenty, so he’d avoided a collision, but he’d had to slam his brakes on, then watched, aghast, as the ancient yellow HiLux cut straight across him.
He knew there was nothing much he could do to help the driver. He was unconscious; his pulse thready. Dash had called the emergency services, then pulled his warning triangle out of his boot and put it up to warn any other traffic. A passer-by had said it was Matthew Melchior; that he and his great-niece lived alone together at Dragonfly Farm. He could see the police were stretched when they arrived. There were only two of them on duty in the area, and calls were coming through for a factory blaze near Honisham, so he’d offered to go and notify the relatives. They had been pathetically grateful.
