Surprise Me(102)

‘Well.’ Robert raises his eyebrows. ‘You’ve been busy.’

‘I know the condo merchants are circling.’ I appeal to him directly. ‘But can’t we at least give this place a chance to become a modern, functioning museum?’

‘I like it,’ says Robert slowly. ‘I like all your ideas. Although again, money. Do not commit any money, Aunt Margaret,’ he adds quickly to Mrs Kendrick as she opens her mouth. ‘You have done enough.’

‘I agree,’ I reply. ‘She has. And we don’t need it.’ I can’t help smiling at them both. ‘Because today we were awarded a grant of thirty thousand pounds from the Wilson–Cross Foundation.’

Susie texted me with the good news an hour ago. And I’ll be honest, my initial reaction was: Great. But … is that all? I’d been secretly hoping for a magical, problem-solving, fairy-godmother amount, like another half-million.

But you have to be thankful for what you can get.

‘Well done, Sylvie!’ Mrs Kendrick claps her hands together.

‘Good work,’ agrees Robert.

‘It’ll tide us over,’ I say, ‘until some of these projects start generating income.’

Robert holds out his hand for the list and I pass it to him. He runs his eyes down it and nods a few times. ‘You’ll spearhead all of this?’

I nod vigorously. ‘Can’t wait.’

And I mean it: I can’t wait to get cracking. I want to kick-start these projects and see them into fruition. More than that, I want to see them saving Willoughby House.

But at the same time, there’s a weird feeling inside me that’s been growing all day. A sense that my time here might be nearing its final stage. That I might, some time in the not-too-distant future, move on to a new environment. Challenge myself even more. See what I’m capable of.

I catch Robert’s eye and have the strangest conviction that he can tell what I’m thinking. So I hastily look away. Instead I focus on the Adam fireplace, with the two huge shells brought back by Sir Walter Kendrick from Polynesia. It’s where we gather every year for Mrs Kendrick’s Staff Christmas Stockings. She wraps up little gifts and makes special marzipan cakes …

I feel a sudden wrench. God, this place gets under your skin, with all its quirks and traditions. But you can’t stay somewhere just for the sake of tradition, can you? You can’t stay put, just for a few sentimental reasons.

Is that how Dan feels about me?

Am I a sentimental reason?

My eyes start to feel hot again. It’s been such a day, I’m not sure I can hold it together.

‘If you don’t mind, I’ll be going,’ I say, my voice husky. ‘I’ll send you an email summarizing everything we’ve discussed. It’s just … I think I need to get home.’

‘Of course, Sylvie!’ says Mrs Kendrick. ‘You go and have a lovely evening. And well done!’ She claps her hands together again.

I head out of the library, and Robert comes along with me.

‘Are you OK?’ he says in a low voice, and I curse him for being so perceptive.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Kind of. I mean, not really.’

I pause by the stairs and Robert stares at me as though he wants to say something else.

‘What did he do?’ he says at last.

And this is all so upside down, I’d want to laugh. Except it’s not funny. What did Dan do? He worked tirelessly for my family with no credit while I called him ‘chippy’ and a ‘fucking cliché’ and drove him away.

‘Nothing. He did nothing wrong. Nothing. Sorry.’ I start to walk again. ‘I have to go.’

As I walk along our street I feel numb. Flat. All the adrenaline of the day has dissipated. For a while I was distracted by the stimulation of doing stuff and achieving change and making decisions. But now that’s all faded away. It doesn’t seem important. Only one thing seems important. One person. And I don’t know where he is or what he’s thinking or what the future holds.

I don’t even have my girls waiting for me at home. If I did, I could hug them tightly to me and hear their little stories and jokes and troubles, read their books, cook their suppers and distract myself that way. But they’re at a birthday party with Karen.

I’m walking along in a mist of preoccupation, unaware of my surroundings – but as I near home I focus in dismay. There’s an ambulance outside John and Owen’s house and two paramedics are lifting Owen out of it in a wheelchair. He looks frailer than ever and there’s a small plastic tube running into his nose.

‘Oh my God.’ I hurry over to John, who keeps trying to put a hand on Owen’s arm and is being firmly but gently batted away by the paramedics. ‘What happened?’

‘Owen is not well,’ says John simply. There’s almost a warning note to his voice, and I sense he doesn’t want to be quizzed on what? How? When?

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘If there’s anything I can do …’ Even as I say the words, they sound hollow. We all say them, but what do they mean?

‘You’re very kind.’ John nods, his face almost, but not quite, breaking into a smile. ‘Very kind indeed.’

He follows Owen and the paramedics into the house and I watch them, stricken, not wanting to be the nosy neighbour who stares, but not wanting to be the callous neighbour who turns away, either.