A Keeper(34)

‘You gave me a shock,’ she said, still panting slightly. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone and I’ve just been attacked by a pigeon.’

He smiled and Elizabeth was struck by his white even teeth. In fact, now that she looked more closely, all his features were fairly uniform. She might even have described him as handsome.

‘I just saw the lights on. I was working on the fences below.’ He indicated the field between the house and the sea. ‘My name is Brian, by the way.’

‘I’m Elizabeth.’ They shook hands and she was shocked by how rough his skin was. It was more like hide or leather than someone’s palm.

‘Nice to meet you, Elizabeth. What brings you down here on such a bad day?’

‘Well.’ Elizabeth realised she was still holding the key. ‘This is where I was born.’

‘Really? That’s amazing.’

‘Yes, it was my father’s house. Edward Foley, I never knew him or this place. He died when I was very little.’

‘Edward Foley? Sure, he’s not dead.’

From inside the house came a crashing sound as the pigeon tried to make good its escape.





THEN


It was like a switch had been turned off. Mrs Foley stopped speaking. The sluice gates had been shut and the torrent of words ceased. She still brought in the trays – there had been no more sightings of Edward – but she did so in silence. No platitudes, no weather updates, no bland reassurances, she was just thin-lipped and expressionless. At first Patricia was unnerved and then as she grew stronger and wanted answers she realised she couldn’t get them from a woman who refused to speak.

‘I need to phone home.’

‘Where are my clothes?’

‘Why can’t I leave?’

The truth was that Patricia was still very weak. Now that she had stopped drinking the tea she had become nervous of everything on the trays. She left soups or stews untouched. She nibbled at bread, imagining the butter had an odd taste. The less she ate, the smaller her appetite became. She did get out of bed occasionally, but her steps were slow and uncertain. Any sudden movements and she was overcome by dizziness. She found an old blanket in the wardrobe and, wrapped in it, she would sit very still by the window. Somehow the constant howl of the wind and the rattle of the window frame became more bearable if she could see the dark clouds moving across the sky and watch the mammoth rolling sea swell and crash against the cliffs.

Pressing her forehead against the cold glass she dreamt of escape. Jumping from her window onto the porch below and then to the ground. Overpowering Mrs Foley and racing down the stairs to leave the house through the kitchen. Of course these plans would never come to pass. She knew she didn’t have the strength and even if she did, how far would she get wrapped in a blanket with nothing on her feet? The pub was too far and she didn’t know the way to the village. She remembered what Edward had said about the Foleys building the castle on this spot because it was so difficult to reach. Hard to get in, hard to get out. She daydreamed about Buncarragh and what was going on there. Where did people think she was? Did anyone care or were they so involved in their own lives that they hadn’t really noticed? Oddly she only cried when she thought about Convent Hill. Wept, imagining the empty rooms, the pot plants going unwatered, the block of Cheddar growing dark and cracked in the door of the fridge. She longed to return to her lonely life. The loneliness that had driven her to this awful place now seemed like a state of bliss.

One afternoon she was lying in bed drifting in and out of sleep when a noise caught her ear. It wasn’t coming from inside the house. She listened more closely. It was an engine and it didn’t sound as if it was at the back in the farmyard. A car engine! She jumped out of bed, almost falling, her body unused to such exertion. At the window she pulled aside the net curtain and craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the drive at the side of the house. Jutting out in front of the wall she could see the bonnet of a car. It was a little blue Fiat. Rosemary had a car like that! Patricia pressed the side of her face flat against the windowpane to try and see more. A coat flapped. Mustard. Rosemary’s coat, the one with the brown velvet collar. Rosemary had come to rescue her! She rapped her knuckles as hard as she dared against the glass. ‘Rosemary, I’m up here! Rosemary!’ she called out. The coat stayed where it was, being played with by the sea breeze. She banged on the window again. ‘Rosemary. It’s me, Patricia. Rosemary! Up here!’ The coat moved and for a moment the face of her friend was visible but then she waved a hand and ducked down to get back in her car. She was leaving! ‘No. Rosemary! I’m here. I’m up here.’ She raced across the room and tried the door handle in vain. Still locked.

Frantic, Patricia picked up the chair from beside the bed and rushing at the window smashed a leg through a pane of glass. The noise and violence shocked her, and she stood still for a moment, before dropping the chair and rushing to the broken window. ‘Rosemary!’ she howled into the bitter breeze. It was too late. A horrified Patricia watched the blue bonnet inching backwards. ‘No. I’m up here,’ but her voice was little more than a whisper now. She pressed her palm against the window and sank to the floor. Her body was convulsed by weeping, her mouth stretched wide by gasping sobs. So close, but her tears weren’t just for her missed opportunity to escape, they were the relieved tears of a woman who had discovered that somebody truly cared about her. Rosemary, silly, funny Rosemary had driven all the way from Buncarragh all by herself because she was so worried for her friend. Patricia threw herself onto the bed and let her tears soak into the pillow, until eventually she fell asleep.