Sleeper’s Castle

  Working for Dafydd ap Hywell had a cachet all of its own – besides, he paid well. His patrons were generous and he had realised almost too late that if he dismissed every servant on the place he and Catrin would be left to cope alone. Joan liked it at Sleeper’s Castle. It had once been far grander, a fortified manor house in a scattered parish in the hills above Hay. Some of the walls had crumbled and it had little land left, but it still had a fine slate roof, Catrin was educated and her gowns had been made by a skilled seamstress. They were serviceable and these days Catrin patched them herself with neat clever stitches, but nevertheless they were of good expensive cloth, and her cloaks were warm and lined with miniver. Joan liked her and was sorry for her. She must be lonely. She needed a friend.

  Joan glanced at Catrin, who was sitting at the table with her head in her hands. ‘He’s had these moods before,’ she said. Her voice was gentler now. ‘He’ll come out of it. You’ll see.’

  Catrin looked up. ‘I know.’ Wearily she stood up. ‘I’ll go and see if he wants to eat. Perhaps if you throw more logs on the fire in the parlour and serve us there it will cheer him up.’ She didn’t notice Joan’s tightened lips or her exaggerated sigh. Usually they all ate together in the great hall, or she ate here in the kitchen with Joan and Betsi and Peter after placing her father’s food on a tray and taking it to him in his study. That was the way he liked it.

  It was as she left the kitchen and walked back into the shadowy hall she thought she caught sight of a woman’s figure standing near the window. Behind her the kitchen door banged and the draught sent a wave of cold air across the room, scattering ash, blowing out the candles. She blinked and stared and rubbed her eyes and the figure had gone.

  Andy woke with a start. The morning sun was shining into the room and she lay quietly staring at its path across the black-painted floorboards. She had been dreaming, a gentle homely dream about cooking and putting logs on the fire downstairs, and then in the dream a door had banged and all the candles had blown out, leaving her in darkness. She had woken, aware that somewhere a conversation had been left unfinished, the words still echoing in the quiet of the room.

  Sitting up, she groped for her slippers with her feet and pulled on her dressing gown. Pushing her hair back off her face she made her way downstairs to the living room. The bang of the door slamming shut in her dream had seemed so loud and so real it was as if it had been in here.

  The room looked huge and shadowy at this time of the morning, living up to its title of great hall. She smiled, remembering that was the way Sue referred to it, her only concession to the house’s medieval antecedents.

  The sun hadn’t come round yet to any of the windows. The papers on Sue’s desk by the front-facing window with its ancient mullions had been blown onto the floor. Had that happened last night when she came in? She couldn’t remember. She gathered up the papers and as she did so she noticed two tightly stoppered bottles of dark brown liquid standing there. Tucked under them was a torn sheet of paper which said simply: For Sian.

  Neither she nor Sian had thought to look on Sue’s cluttered desk the night before. Andy surveyed the chaos with a smile. If she had been going away for a year she felt sure she would have tidied her desk at the very least. She groped in her pocket for her phone and turned back to the kitchen to look for the note on which Sian had written her number.

  ‘You don’t look as though you slept much.’

  They had arranged to meet in The Granary in Hay. Sian’s dogs lay quietly under the table as Andy brought the two cups of coffee from the counter and set them down.

  Andy gave a rueful grin. ‘I suppose I didn’t. I was exhausted, but my head was whirling all night. The silence is so different from London.’

  She must have slept though. After all, she had dreamed.

  ‘Silence? Didn’t you hear the brook?’

  ‘It is a bit noisy, I admit, but it’s not cars and planes. My house – where I used to live,’ Andy amended hastily, ‘was under the flight path to Heathrow.’

  ‘Ah.’ Sian took a sip from her cappuccino and licked the froth from her top lip. ‘Not in the same league, noise wise.’

  ‘There are people who use the sound of water to send them to sleep,’ Andy smiled again, ‘but this is a constant roar. Not all that soothing. I’m sure I’ll get used to it though.’

  ‘I think you will soon find it wonderful in comparison to the early morning jet to New York.’ Sian laughed. She watched as Andy rummaged in her shopping bag for the bottles she had found in the house.

  Sian reached for one; unscrewing it, she sniffed the liquid and grimaced. ‘As far as I can tell, that’s the right one. Rosehips and nettles with burdock, plus one or two other secret ingredients no doubt. To build them up before the winter.’

  Andy looked down at the dogs under the table. ‘They look pretty fit to me.’

  ‘They are. Thanks to Sue.’ Sian sipped her coffee again. ‘Was Bryn there this morning?’ She reached down and scratched a dog’s ear.

  ‘Bryn?’

  ‘The gardener.’

  ‘I didn’t see anyone.’

  ‘I expect he will come when he’s good and ready.’ Sian looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Remember, a lot of Sue’s herbs are what you probably call weeds. Don’t go rooting about without checking with him first.’

  ‘I’m not going to touch the garden.’ Andy picked up her spoon and stirred her coffee. ‘That was part of the agreement. I’m in charge of the cat and keeping an eye on the house, that’s all.’

  ‘So, what are you going to do up there all day on your own?’ There was a long pause. ‘Sorry. None of my business.’

  ‘No. It’s not that.’ Andy sighed. ‘The truth is, I haven’t really thought. I’m a professional illustrator. I specialise in painting flowers, so I suppose I will go back to doing that.’

  Go back.

  It made it sound as though she had stopped.

  But she had. She had worked with Graham for years. They had been a partnership in so many ways, kindred spirits, lovers, flower geeks. She smiled quietly as she recalled the term given to them by one of her half-brothers.

  And now all that had gone.

  Sian reached over and touched her hand. ‘Sorry. I can see I’m treading on painful ground.’

  Andy took a gulp of coffee. ‘I have to get used to it.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I illustrated the books my partner wrote. He died two months ago. That part of my life is over and I have to rethink myself. I thought …’ She paused. ‘Sue thought coming here would be a good way of doing that, and I agreed with her.’

  ‘It will. A complete change of scene is the best possible medicine.’

  Andy laughed. ‘Painting nettles and burdock would be a tonic on its own. I was painting rare orchids for Graham’s last book.’

  A woman at the next table stood up and began to manoeuvre her child’s buggy out of the narrow corner. Andy and Sian grabbed for their table as their coffee cups rocked and slopped into the saucers. They waited in silence for the woman to extricate herself and then settled back down. ‘You’d think she would have apologised,’ Sian said quietly. She poured her coffee back into the cup from the brimming saucer.

  Andy was chewing her lip. Babies were another thing to tug the heartstrings. Graham had not wanted any. She did not even have a child to comfort her in her loss.

  Sian accompanied her back to the car park then waved goodbye. She had walked down to Hay from her house and firmly refused the offer of a lift back. ‘Good for me and the dogs to walk.’ She smiled. ‘I’ll ring you. You must come to supper soon.’

  For a few minutes Andy stood staring wistfully after the retreating figure as Sian set off across the car park, through a gate in the far corner and into the field behind it, her dogs racing round her in delight as soon as she let them off their leads. Andy watched until she had vanished through a hedge on the far side of the field then she turned back to unlock her car.

  There was an old mud-splashed Peugeot va
n parked in her spot outside the house. She edged her own car in beside it and ran up the steps to the front door. Letting herself in she glanced round. Presumably the mysterious gardener had at last put in an appearance and she wasn’t sure if he had a key. There was no sign of him indoors however. Nor could she see him from the kitchen window.

  He was digging in a bed at the far end of the garden. She watched him for several minutes before approaching him, aware that Pepper was sitting on the path near him, apparently intent on studying his digging technique. About six feet away from him she stopped. He went on digging, seemingly unaware of her presence. Losing patience she cleared her throat. ‘Bryn, I presume?’

  He paused in his work then, thrusting the fork into the ground, turned to face her. He was tall, his hair an unruly tangle, his eyes clear light grey, almost silver, his face weathered. Over a dark plaid shirt he wore a leather waistcoat. He didn’t smile nor did he say anything. He surveyed her in silence, presumably waiting for her to speak again. Determined not to be wrong-footed, Andy narrowed her eyes. ‘You are Bryn?’ she repeated firmly.

  He pushed his sleeves up to the elbow, revealing muscular arms, one of which bore a small tattoo. She couldn’t see what it was from where she was standing. He nodded in answer to her question. ‘I’m Andy Dysart,’ she went on. ‘I presume Sue told you I was coming to stay here for a few months.’

  ‘A year, she said.’ His voice was strong with a slight lilt.

  ‘A year,’ she confirmed.

  ‘She left me instructions on how to run the garden,’ he said. ‘I won’t need to bother you.’

  ‘Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea while we talk about how it is going to work?’ From his expression she could already guess his answer and as she expected he declined.

  ‘I have a flask, thank you. As I said, I won’t need to bother you.’ And with that he turned away. He pulled the fork out of the ground, and swinging it over his shoulder he walked off towards what looked like an orchard on the far side of the herb beds.

  Andy glanced at Pepper, who was looking inscrutable. ‘So, that went well,’ she said out loud. The cat raised a paw and cursorily swept it over his ear. ‘You’re right,’ she added. ‘My fault for even starting the conversation.’

  Heading back towards the kitchen she let herself in and pulled off her jacket. If she had been looking for the occasional chat to relieve the solitude of this house she would not find it in Bryn, whose second name she didn’t even know and whose timetable she would no doubt find out by seeing which days he turned up. She felt a flash of irritation.

  She spent the afternoon unpacking. Tidying the desk and putting all Sue’s papers in a drawer out of sight, she surveyed the empty space with satisfaction before turning to lay out her paints and brushes and sketchbooks on the large table. It was a gesture to stake her claim on the house, she realised, as she lovingly touched the tools of her trade. Up to now she had not been able to bear even the sight of them; somehow she had felt she could never paint again without Graham’s encouragement, his compliments, his quiet certainty in her skill but seeing them lying there on an unaccustomed surface in a different setting, she felt the lure of the paint again. When the time came her brushes would feel right in her hands once more.

  Leaving them in place, ready for action, she turned away and began a tour of the house, slowly visiting every room, reminding herself of her previous visit with Graham. The house hadn’t changed since that summer, except for the wonderful cat-inspired kitchen. The great hall downstairs was large, the walls of whitewashed stone, the ceiling white-painted between old rugged beams. The kitchen led off it in the far left-hand corner, while to the right were two smaller rooms, one of which was laid out as a dining room overlooking the front garden. It felt unused and slightly damp. Behind it was what Sue called the parlour, a small living room with its own inglenook fireplace, also unused. In the far right-hand corner of the main living room in the alcove beside the hearth, the broad stone-built staircase climbed to the first floor behind the huge chimney, a heavy rope doing the job of a banister. Upstairs, to the right, above the parlour were two bedrooms, one of which she had claimed as her own, and to the left was the much bigger room which was Sue’s – Pepper’s, she corrected herself – and the modern bathroom. At the opposite side of the landing were two more bedrooms. She lugged her remaining bags and boxes into one of those spare rooms. She would unpack the rest of her stuff as and when and if she needed it. As she closed the door on it all, her phone rang.

  She groped in her pocket and warily eyed the screen. To her relief it was her mother.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  ‘Have you arrived safely, darling? How is it going?’ Her mother was obviously outside in the garden of her home in Bosham in Sussex. She could hear the scream of seagulls in the background and the lonely whistle of an oystercatcher.

  ‘It’s fine. A lovely place, just as I remembered.’

  ‘And the cat?’

  They had discussed the cat at length before Andy set off for Wales. Her mother’s cat was a wild, unsociable and slightly vicious Siamese whom her mother, unaccountably, doted on. He was the complete opposite of Culpepper in every way. ‘He’s enigmatic and I think a little puzzled as to why I am here. But he has graciously accepted all his meals so far.’

  Her mother laughed. ‘That’s what matters. Have you stocked up with lots of food for you as well?’

  ‘Of course. And Sue has left me plenty of wine.’ Besides the two bottles on the dresser, Andy had found a wine rack in a pantry off the kitchen.

  ‘And you’re not going to be too lonely?’

  Andy thought for a second before replying. ‘No. I’ve already met one neighbour who seems very nice. We had coffee in Hay together this morning, and there’s a gardener here as well.’ Her eye was caught by the sight of Bryn through the window. He was walking back to the bed where she had first accosted him. He began to fork the ground again and as she watched she saw Pepper reappear to sit in almost the identical spot on the path to watch him. ‘This house has a wonderful feel. I’m going to be very happy here.’ To her relief her mother didn’t ask about the gardener. They exchanged brief family news and then she hung up.

  Andy did not find out what, if anything, Bryn did for lunch. After establishing that he was still digging round the back she opened the front door and went out to collect flowers from the front garden. Bringing them back indoors almost guiltily she put them in a glass and took them through to leave on the table. Later she would sketch them as an exorcism of the orchid period and a welcome to the new, wild, herbal Miranda Dysart experience. The thought of outwitting Bryn pleased her enormously. She doubted he would have minded her picking a few flowers, but she was not going to give him the chance to comment either way. He left at about five o’clock. She heard the engine of his van start up as she was sitting painting by the light of a powerful desk lamp which she had found in a corner of the room.

  Bryn threw his tools into the back of his van, climbed in and sat back, closing his eyes with a sigh. Part of him had been dreading meeting the new tenant. He replayed his last conversation with Sue in his head. ‘OK. I’ve found someone to look after the house, so I’ll be off tomorrow.’ She had looked at him with a quizzical smile. ‘Now don’t you bully her,’ she said with feeling. ‘She’s been through a tough time. All she needs is peace and quiet.’

  Bryn had given a snort of laughter. ‘Wrong place to come then, I would have thought.’

  ‘Yeah, well luckily you’re here to dig, not think!’ She had punched him affectionately on the arm. ‘Look after the place, Bryn.’

  When he arrived this morning there had been no sign of a car outside the house and Bryn had felt his spirits rise. Perhaps the new tenant had not materialised after all. He had been hoping in a way he would find a message: Sorry, Bryn. She couldn’t make it. Can you look after Pepper. Obviously that wasn’t going to happen. When he had heard a car pull in later he had felt real disappointment. He studi
ed Andy’s car thoughtfully. It was a dark blue VW Passat. At least ten years old. He sighed. Sue had given him nothing to go on. ‘Been through a tough time’ could mean anything. It was typical of her to give him the minimum of information. She wasn’t interested in the detail of people’s lives. He doubted if she even knew where he lived. She never asked questions, she gave instructions. In another person he might have assumed she was shy or maybe arrogant, but neither word applied to Sue. Single-minded described her best. She was focused. Small talk did not form part of her DNA, but that suited him. He had been through tough times too and a gossipy, gushing woman was the last thing he needed. He pictured the new arrival again. Appearing in the garden when he was digging over the beds she had given him a shock. She had moved quietly, almost creeping up on him. She was tall, slim, no, perhaps thin described her better; on the edge of gaunt. She was an attractive woman, or had been, her clothes casual, no make-up, her hair wild in the wind. He wondered why she was moving here to the deep country, seemingly alone.

  She hadn’t pushed him for information, although he could see she was curious to know about him. How much had Sue told her? Probably nothing. Presumably they were both as in the dark as each other. He opened his eyes and stared ahead across the lane towards the hills, then with a sigh he reached forward and turned the ignition key.

  Andy gave him ten minutes to drive down the lane and then cautiously went outside and checked the parking space. Her car was now alone. She felt an overwhelming sense of relief. The next hour she spent exploring the back garden, every inch of it. The terrace outside the back door sported huge tubs of rosemary and lemon verbena and scented geraniums, plants which she guessed would have to go into the greenhouse come the really cold weather. Beyond the terrace was the first of the patches of grass. The garden rose quite steeply behind the house, just as it fell away steeply in front. It was large, unorthodox, laid out to favour Sue’s herbs rather than any aesthetic plan. There were small areas of lawn and borders with what might be described as flowers rather than herbs, but on the whole the paths wound between islands of medicinal plants. The bed on which Bryn had been working was now neatly dug and raked. Other beds were obviously stock beds for herbs which Sue used often: marigolds, their flowers almost luminous in the fading light, and trimmed lavender. Beside these were more decorative beds, with old roses, and there was a vegetable garden, neat and well stocked. There were two sheds, one for garden tools and the other Sue’s drying shed. As she opened the door Andy was swamped with the rich scent of herbs. Bunches hung from lines of hooks on the ceiling and there were drying racks ranged against the walls. The racks were empty, but the hanging herbs looked fresh.