Spider Light(5)
She turned right obediently, refusing to feel grateful for the high yew hedges which closed comfortingly around the narrow roadway. Here was the old brick wall; it looked as if it might once have had vines growing up it. Nice. In summer the bricks would be warm, and you could sit and read and dream. It occurred to her that there was all the time in the world for that now. Reading and music and dreams. Perhaps she would finally get round to reading things like Pepys’ Diaries and listening to all Mahler’s symphonies–Richard used to say her musical tastes were hopelessly unadventurous. She was aware of a sudden stab of longing to hear Richard calling her unadventurous again–in fact, to hear Richard calling her anything at all.
She swung the car to the left, and, just as the directions had said, she was there.
It was the ugliest house she had ever seen and if, as its name suggested, it had once been somebody’s idea of charity for the indigent, Antonia was glad she had not been the recipient because it looked as if it had been a very bleak charity indeed.
It was built of dirty-looking stone, which might have been attractive if the stones had weathered or mellowed, but they had not and the cottage was all hard angles–an oblong box with a no-frills roof slapped firmly onto its walls. Antonia, who had subconsciously been expecting rose-red brick, latticed windows and a garden with lupins and hollyhocks, took note of the fact that the place was sturdy and weatherproof, even down to the uncompromisingly modern windows someone had thought it suitable to install: square white frames in heavy-duty plastic. The front door, which was on the left-hand side of the house, was of the same white plastic, with an unpleasant steel letterbox like a rat-trap mouth.
But you did not live on the outside of a house, so it didn’t really matter what the place looked like. Antonia produced the key, and discovered a particular pleasure in inserting it in the lock and pushing the door open with a proprietorial air. No matter what it’s like, she thought, for the next two months it’s mine. Providing I don’t play loud music at one a.m. or hold orgies of the bacchanalian kind, no one can boot me out or come crashing in to disturb me.
There was a moment when she felt the past brush her mind, exactly as it had done while looking at the ancient watermill. Like stepping up to the windows of an old house to peer through its cobwebby panes and seeing a blurred flicker of movement from within.
But the moment passed, and she went inside, aware only of curiosity as the scents and atmosphere of this as yet unknown place folded round her. The main door opened straight into a fair-sized sitting room, and it was at once apparent that the inside of Charity Cottage was far nicer than the outside. The sitting room had a brick fireplace enclosing an electric fire, and the furniture was better than she had hoped: a sofa, a couple of easy chairs, a low coffee table and some nice framed sketches on the walls. The windows, one on each side of the door, overlooked grassy parkland.
As well as being nicer, the cottage was deeper than it had looked. A door opened off the sitting room onto a large inner room with stairs winding up to the first floor. This had been utilized as a small dining room. There was a gateleg table with four bentwood chairs, and an oak dresser with blue and white plates. Antonia, glancing towards the stairs, thought the bedrooms could wait, and went through to the back of the cottage. This would be the kitchen, and hopefully there would be the promised crockery and cutlery, and a workable hot-water system. She pushed open the door which was of the old-fashioned kind with a high iron latch.
A bolt of such strong emotion hit her it was as if she had received a hard blow across her face. The room spun sickeningly, and Antonia reached blindly for the solid old door to prevent herself falling. For several nightmare moments she clung to it, fighting for breath, struggling to get free of the waves of fear. Stop hyperventilating, you idiot, take deep, slow breaths–you know how it goes. In for a count of five, out for a count of five. She concentrated and, after a moment, was able to let go of the door frame and shakily straighten up.
It was, indeed, an entirely ordinary kitchen: sink, draining board, some cupboards and worktops–not up-to-the-minute, state-of-the-art stuff, but not so very old. There was even a grocery box on one of the worktops, which struck a friendly note. Antonia investigated this, and found a compliments slip tucked inside.
From Quire House, with good wishes for your stay. Perishables in fridge. We hope to meet you ere long–do come over to the house for a drink or a cup of tea. PS: Spare key in teapot.
There was a scrawled signature–Godfrey Toy, and the legend at the top said:
Quire House Trust. Museum and Craft Centre. Incorporating Rare and Out of Print Booksearch Service. Curators: Dr Godfrey Toy and Professor Oliver Remus.
And if you were going to tumble without warning into a bottomless black well of panic, at least the climb back to normality was more pleasant if there was a box of groceries and a friendly note waiting for you at the top. Antonia liked the idea of someone who stored keys in teapots like Lewis Carroll’s dormouse.
Closer investigation revealed that the unknown Dr Toy’s tastes ran classily to a hefty portion of Brie, some beautifully fresh French bread, an earthenware dish of paté, a dozen free-range eggs, some pre-packaged strips of smoked salmon, a bag of apples and one of plums, and four neat half bottles of wine–two red and two white. With the tinned food and cartons of milk she had bought with her, this added up to quite a well-stocked larder. I’ll learn to be a householder all over again, thought Antonia, carefully distributing everything on shelves and in cupboards. I’ll have a milk delivery and newspapers.