They had passed the last stop before Long Barton. She watched Mrs Linnet gather up her bags, clutching them to her, poised to disembark the train some time before that might be necessary. She noted the now familiar landmarks of church and houses, the glimpse of the high street through trees, the verges and hedgerows green with new growth and wondered what it took for any place to feel like home.
It was only when the train drew into Long Barton station that Isabel stood up and did what she had sworn she wouldn't. She reached out and found her hand closing on the handle of a violin case that was no longer there.
When she returned they were in front of the television, Kitty with her stockinged feet up on a table in front of the sofa, eating a packet of crisps, Thierry lying across an old easy chair, his school tie rolled into a ball on the floor.
'You weren't here when we got in,' said Kitty, accusingly. 'Even Matt wasn't. We had to use the key under the back-door mat.'
Isabel dropped her shoulder bag on a side table. 'Thierry, did you eat your lunch today?'
Her son nodded, his eyes not leaving the television.
'All of the sandwich?'
His eyes flicked towards her and he nodded again. The room was unusually peaceful and she realised it was because the builders were absent. Even when they were not banging or crashing about, their presence added a vibration to the air. Or was that just Matt McCarthy? Isabel rubbed at her eyes. 'I'm going to make a cup of tea,' she said.
'Where have you been?'
Kitty's natural curiosity must have swamped her desire not to talk to her mother. She saw her daughter register her tiredness, and felt herself flush, as if the reason for her exhaustion might be apparent.
'London,' she said. 'I'll explain in a minute.'
When she came back with her tea, the television was off and they were sitting upright. They sprang apart, as if there had been some muttered conversation to which she had not been privy. Except it would have been one-sided, she thought. Because her son did not speak.
Isabel met their eyes, and told them. 'We can go back to London,' she said.
Afterwards she was not sure what she had expected, perhaps not tumultuous applause but some excitement, maybe smiles, a little bounce of joy. But they sat and stared at her.
'What does that mean?' said Kitty, a little aggressive still.
'What I said,' said Isabel. 'We can go back to London. We'll pay to have this place smartened up, get it to a point where it's saleable, and then, hopefully, we'll have enough to find ourselves somewhere near our old house. And your friends,' she added.
Still they stared at her.
'It probably won't be as big as our old house, but I'm sure we'll find something we like.'
'But . . . how can we afford it?' Kitty was frowning, one finger looped unconsciously round a lock of hair.
'That needn't concern you,' Isabel said. 'I just thought you'd like to know.'
Kitty was staring at her suspiciously. 'I don't understand,' she said. 'You told me we had no money. You said the building work was costing everything we had. What happened?'
'I've . . . reorganised our finances. That was why I was in London.'
'You don't know anything about finances. I know our finances and we don't have any.'
Suddenly it hit her. Her eyes cast around the room, to the table, the bureau. 'Oh, my God,' she said quietly.
Isabel had rehearsed a calm, serene smile. A smile that told her children nothing of what it had cost her, of the anguish she had experienced when she had handed her instrument to the dealer. It had felt as if she was parting with one of her children.
'You didn't sell it.'
Isabel nodded.
Kitty broke into hysterical sobs. 'Oh, no!' she cried. 'Oh, no! I made you do it.'
Isabel's smile vanished.
'I didn't mean you actually to sell it. I know what it meant to you. And now you're going to be really miserable and hate me for ever. Oh, Mum, I'm really sorry.'
Isabel sat down heavily and pulled Kitty to her. 'No,' she said, stroking her hair. 'You were right. That instrument was an extravagance we couldn't afford. And, besides, Mr Frobisher has found me a replacement - much cheaper but with a very nice sound. He's fixing it up and he's going to send it next week.'
'You'll hate it.' Kitty's voice was muffled.
'No, I won't,' said Isabel, although she knew that her daughter was right. 'Kitty, I made a big mistake, and I'm going to put it right,' she said. 'Music is going to take a back seat. The sooner we can raise the cash to get this house into shape, the sooner we can go home.'
It was then that she noticed Thierry's expression. He didn't look delighted at all. 'You still want to go back, don't you, Thierry? Back to London?'
There was a short silence. Then, slowly, her son shook his head. Isabel stared at him, then at Kitty. 'Thierry?' she said again.
His voice, when it came, was small but definite. 'No,' he said.
Isabel looked at Kitty, who seemed incapable now of meeting her eye.
'Actually,' said Kitty, 'I . . . don't mind it here.' She glanced behind her at her brother. '. . . I mean, I don't mind staying for a bit . . . if that's what Thierry wants.'
Isabel wondered if she would ever truly understand her two awkward, mercurial children. She took a deep breath. 'Okay,' she said. 'We'll pay Mr McCarthy what we owe him, and see how we go. But at least we have some options. And now,' she said, 'I'm going to sort out some of this paperwork.'
The sun was setting through the drawing-room window, and the children turned on the television. Isabel sat at the table and began to open the letters she had ignored and to write lists of things to be done. She felt almost physically bereft at the loss of the object she had cherished for so long, daunted by the months ahead of her but, curiously, better than she had in months.
He said no, she told herself, eyeing her son as she opened another envelope. That had to be better than nothing.
'She looked terrible,' Mrs Linnet said, with relish. 'Pale as a ghost, with big, dark shadows under her eyes. She hardly said a word to me the last two stops.'
Asad and Henry exchanged a glance. It was possible that Mrs Linnet's conversation might not exert the same pull on everyone she met.
'That house will give her a nervous breakdown. You know one of the ceilings fell in not two weeks ago? Anything could have happened. Her children might have been underneath.'
'But they weren't,' said Henry. 'So all is well.'
'I don't know what Matt McCarthy's thinking of. A man of his experience . . . You'd think the first thing he'd do is make sure it was safe. Especially with the children.'
'You would think,' said Asad, who was counting notes in the till.
'I'm sure it was a one-off,' Henry put in.
'I wouldn't be surprised if it was the ghost of Samuel Pottisworth come to haunt them.' Mrs Linnet gave a theatrical shiver.
'Oh, Mrs L, you don't believe in ghosts,' Henry chided her.
'But we do believe in evil spirits, don't we, Henry?' Asad snapped a rubber band round the notes.
'I like to have proof before I believe in anything, Asad.' Henry glared pointedly at his partner.
'Oh, some entities are far too clever for that.'
'And some people see things where there are none.'
Mrs Linnet had been distracted from the thread of her own conversation and was staring at them.
Asad closed the till. 'It's one of your more endearing character traits that you see good everywhere, Henry, but sometimes it blinds you to what's really around you.'
'I know exactly what's going on, but I also believe in protecting oneself.'
'"For evil to survive, all that is necessary is for good people to stand by and do nothing."'
'But you have no proof.'
Mrs Linnet put down her bag. 'Have I missed something here?' she said.
At that moment the door swung open, and all three fell silent as Anthony McCarthy entered. He was talking to someone on his mobile
telephone, so did not see the glances that shot between them, or the way that the two men behind the counter began to busy themselves. Mrs Linnet remembered she had to buy some jam, and set off to search the shelves at the far end.
The boy ended his conversation and shut his phone. His woollen hat was pulled low over his long hair, and his clothes hung off him, as if he had bought them several sizes too large.
'Good afternoon, Anthony.' Asad smiled. 'Can I help you?'
'Oh. Yeah.' He squatted in front of the cold counter, biting his lip. 'My mum asked me to bring home olives, smoked turkey and something else.' He grinned. 'But I can't remember what the something else was.'
'You men,' said Mrs Linnet. 'You're all the same.'
'Cheese?' suggested Asad.
'Fruit?' Henry held out a basket. 'We've got some lovely grapes.'
'Bread?'
The boy was so much like his mother, Henry thought. Same nose, same pleasant but reserved manner. Same curious mixture of defensiveness and pride, as if being related to Matt was cause for both celebration and shame.
'She'll kill me,' he said cheerfully.
'I'll get the olives and turkey together,' said Asad. 'That might jog your memory.'
'Is it definitely something to eat?' said Mrs Linnet, who enjoyed a challenge.
'Fruit cake? She likes that.' Henry held some aloft.
Anthony shook his head.
'Milk,' said Mrs Linnet. 'I always forget milk. And loo roll.'
'Why don't you ring her?'
'I just did. That was the answer-machine. She must have gone out. It'll come to me when I'm back in the van.'
Asad placed the two paper-wrapped parcels in a bag, and handed them over the counter. 'Are you still helping your father up at the big house?' he asked, as Anthony held out a note.
'Sometimes.'
'How is the work progressing?' Asad chose to ignore Henry's frown.
'She's asked us to stop for now,' said Anthony. 'I think it's all okay. Mind you, I wouldn't know. I just do what Dad says.'
'I'm sure,' said Asad. He counted out the change into Anthony's hand. 'And how is young Kitty?'
The boy flushed. 'She's . . . all right. As far as I know,' he muttered into his collar.
Now Henry was suppressing a smile.
'It's nice that she's got a few friends,' said Mrs Linnet. 'It must be ever so lonely for a young girl in that big house. I was just saying, her mother looks terrible--'
Anthony caught Henry's eye as the door opened again and Matt came in. 'What's taking you so long? We were meant to be at Mr Nixon's house fifteen minutes ago.'
'I forgot what Mum wanted,' Anthony said.
'Well, son,' Matt grinned, 'what women want is one of life's eternal mysteries, eh?' Suddenly he seemed to realise whom he was addressing, and the grin faded. 'Anyway, best get on the road.'
Asad smiled. 'Mr McCarthy, I was just going to tell Anthony - I watched a very interesting programme last night about builders.'
'Oh, yes?' Matt was glancing at the door, as if he was in a hurry to leave.
'It showed what happens when builders overcharge innocent householders, or invent jobs that don't need doing. An appalling thing to do, wouldn't you agree, Mr McCarthy?'
There was a sudden silence. Henry closed his eyes.
Matt came back in and shut the door behind him. 'I'm not sure I know what you mean, Asad.'
Asad's smile was steady. 'Oh, I think you're a more worldly man than you give yourself credit for, Mr McCarthy.'
Matt moved closer to his son. 'It's good of you to say so, Asad, but you'll find nothing of that nature goes on in this village. Round here we trade on our reputations, as you know. Builders and shopkeepers.'
'Indeed. We're familiar with people's reputations in this shop. But I'm glad you have such a positive view of things. Because you must agree that anyone who knew of such an act would feel obliged to speak out about it.'
Matt's smile was steely now. 'Asad, mate, if I had a clue what you were on about, I'm sure I'd agree with you. Come on, Anthony. We must go.' The door closed with slightly more emphasis than usual, making the bell jangle for several seconds.
*
Matt's ears glowed as he crossed the pavement. As he climbed into the van he was unable to keep his feelings in check. 'Bloody cheek! Did you hear him, Ant? Did you hear what he was insinuating?' Fear that his night with Isabel might be discovered made him more aggressive than he had intended. 'Sanctimonious prick. I could do him for slander, talking like that. Bloody holier-than-thou - he's always got on my nerves.'
The white noise in Matt's head was so loud that he didn't hear his phone until his son pulled it from the dashboard and answered it. 'It's Theresa,' he said, baldly, and he too turned away from his father.
It was shortly before seven the following morning when Isabel spotted the dogs. It was Saturday, so there was no compulsory early start, but she slept only fitfully now, and had decided that the only way to clear her head was to get up.
How to explain the plans she had found in the yellow digger? They clearly related to the Spanish House, were some sort of template for the work Matt had been doing. They showed the bathroom in the space he had suggested, back to back with a new dressing room. Yet he had never mentioned architects or plans. They were too recent to have belonged to Samuel Pottisworth - and she found it hard to believe that her great-uncle would have wanted to embark on major building work, having neglected the house for decades.
But if Matt had paid an architect to draw them up for her, surely she should have had a say in what was suggested? The thought of discussing any of this with him made her feel unhappy again.
And then there was the money. She had never thought about it before Laurent's death. It had been his domain, an abstract that existed to facilitate life's pleasures. Family holidays, new clothes, meals out. Their casual profligacy shocked her now.
Isabel knew exactly how much money she held in both purse and bank account. Once she had paid Matt's latest invoice, she and her family could survive on what was left for three months without any further income. Teaching three or four violin lessons a week would make it last longer. If they could get at least one room straight and a decent bathroom, they could let it, which would bring in up to forty pounds a week. But it was a big if. They were still washing in the kitchen sink and using the downstairs cloakroom. 'I can't see many tenants being keen on a tin bath,' Kitty had remarked.
Isabel had been standing, half-awake, at her window, watching the ducks and geese rise into the air, honking at some unseen predator, when she saw dogs on the other side of the water, chasing each other in joyous circles.
Almost on impulse she pulled on her dressing-gown and ran down to the front door. She put on her wellingtons and half walked, half ran across the lawn to the lake, her arms wrapped round her against the morning air.
She stopped where the dogs had been, wet weeds brushing against her bare calves, her ears filled with birdsong. The dogs had vanished.
'Byron?' she called, her voice echoing across the lake.
He had already gone. He must have been on his way to work. And then, a short distance away, a head broke the water. A sleek dark head, and rising up from the liquid surface, a torso, bare to the waist.
He had his back to her so for a couple of seconds Isabel was free to watch him unnoticed. She was struck by the unexpected magnificence of him, the broad, taut shoulders that slid into the narrowed waist. He wiped water off his face, and she was flooded with conflicting emotions, awe at his physical beauty, then shame at the remembrance of the last male body to be close to her, and loss - of uncomplicated physicality, a hard male body against a yielding female one, pleasures she suspected she would never enjoy again.
He jolted as he caught sight of her, and she spun away, embarrassed to be caught staring.
'I'm sorry,' she said, her hair falling over her face. 'I . . . didn't realise you were there . . .'
He waded to the edge of the lake, see
ming almost as uncomfortable as she was. 'I often come here in the mornings to swim,' he said. His clothes lay in a heap near a laurel bush. 'I hope you don't mind.'
'No . . . Of course not. You're very brave,' she said. 'It must be freezing.'
'You get used to it,' he said. There was a short silence, during which the dogs raced past, tongues lolling. Then he smiled. 'Erm . . . Isabel . . . I need to get out . . .'
She realised immediately what he meant, and turned away, cheeks flaming. How long did he think she'd been standing there? In her dressing-gown, of all things. Suddenly she saw herself as someone else might. Had Matt told him about the other night? Should she even be here at all? Isabel felt suddenly crushed. She pulled her gown around her. 'Look,' she said, 'I'll talk to you another time. I've got to get back.'
'Isabel, you don't have--'
'No. I do. I'm really--'
It was then that she saw her son. He came out of the trees, holding up the edge of his sweatshirt, which was filled with mushrooms. 'Thierry?' she said, perplexed. 'I thought you were in bed.'
'I thought you knew,' Byron said, behind her. 'He's been coming out with me every Saturday morning.'
She hadn't had any idea. But Mary would have known if Thierry had been out in the wilds shortly after dawn. Isabel felt cold. Her silk dressing-gown was no protection against the damp air.
'I'm sorry,' said Byron, still waist deep in the water. 'I wouldn't have let him come if I'd known.'
'It's fine. If it makes him happy . . .' she said, in a small voice. Thierry stepped forward and offered her the mushrooms, from which a pungent, earthy smell arose.
'They're safe,' said Byron, 'just chanterelles. I've been picking them for years. They're off Matt's land, but he won't mind.'
At that name Isabel let her hair fall further over her face and stooped to take the mushrooms from Thierry. She made sure she had her back to Byron and heard splashing as he emerged from the water. To have him naked in such close proximity made her feel acutely self-conscious, so she muttered something inconsequential to Thierry, who was rifling through his haul with expert fingers.
'Actually I needed to ask you a favour,' she said to Byron, her back still to him.
He waited.
'I need to use our land - live off it as far as I can. You said you could teach Thierry how to grow vegetables - well, perhaps you could show me what I can do for myself. I know you're employed by Matt, and you're probably very busy, but I'd be grateful for anything you can tell me . . . There isn't anyone else I can ask.'