The Bitter End, Page 3

  Shit. Hate cats, Paul thought, keeping his smile firmly in place. There was something about them that freaked him out. He glanced at the cat flap wondering if he could jam the hinge shut.

  Guilt swamped him. This beautiful, sexy, loving young woman was sharing her home with him. More than that, giving him a new life, one he never thought he’d get. The least he could do was get on with her cat. Cute name, Bluebell. Just a pity it wasn’t a dog.

  Want to see our workroom?’ Sally asked. ‘I’ve made some space and bought some new office furniture. Come and see.’

  It was a hexagonal-shaped conservatory overlooking the back garden. The room smelled of leather. He whistled. ‘This place is a Tardis!’

  ‘Isn’t it just! This is where I do my designs.’ There was a drawing board, two large tables, one with an industrial sewing machine clamped to it; rolls of leather in various colours, shelves full of packaging and a rail of designer style leather bags. ‘And over this side …’ She made a sweeping gesture. ‘… Is your desk, filing cabinets and swivelly chair. Is it okay?’

  ‘I hadn’t expected this. I just thought me and my laptop would perch somewhere.’

  ‘As if. You'll have to set up your own internet server and stuff. And no doubt some special Skype links or whatever you people do.’

  ‘You, Sally Knightly, are an amazing young woman. But you can leave all that side of things to me. And I'm sorry I can't talk more about my work …’

  ‘I know! I know! Official Secrets and all that. Don't worry. I'm fine with it all.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, planting a kiss on the top of her head. He wandered over to her working area. ‘So, these are your designer bags? Nice.’

  ‘And made with only the finest Italian leather, I’ll have you know.’

  ‘I’ll buy one from you for my mother’s birthday. She’s knocking on a bit but still a slave to fashion.’

  Sally looked curiously at him. ‘She’s still alive? You’ve never spoken about your parents. I assumed they were dead.’

  ‘Dad is. Lung cancer did him in years ago.’

  ‘Will you take me to meet your mother, sometime?’

  ‘Absolutely. Next time I visit her.’ To his surprise, Sally turned away to stare out the window. He was astute enough to recognise when a woman was feeling hurt about something. He stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. ‘She’ll love you.’ She made no response. ‘Sal, what are you thinking?’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s stupid. Here we are moving in together and I know nothing about the important things in your life – your parents, your childhood. You don’t talk about them. I can understand you not wanting to talk about Helena, but I’d love to hear what you were like as a boy.’ She turned in his arms to face him. ‘Were you a podgy little thing always grazing your knees, or a brainbox, with your head stuck in a book? I bet you were, that’s why you’ve got such a good job now.’

  ‘A bit of both probably. I liked school. I was fortunate to have a public school education, then University and the Royal Naval College; eleven years in Naval Intelligence – but you know all this, Sal.’

  ‘I mean when you were little?’ she pressed. ‘When you were a little boy.’

  He gazed over the top of her head, to the garden and the barns. ‘Well, I reckon I must have been a clumsy little kid at times. But I can't remember, Sal. It was such a long time ago, and does it matter? It’s the future that counts now.’

  She sighed. ‘You’re right, I suppose. And it’ll be fun discovering each other bit by bit, revealing the layers, stripping away the secrets.’ Blue eyes sparkling with mischief, she began unbuttoning his shirt.

  His hand clasped over hers and he nodded towards the outbuildings at the bottom of the garden. ‘What’s out there?’

  ‘Come and see!’

  He followed her into the garden, smiling to himself at the way she had a skip to her walk. She really was a breath of fresh air after the harsh cynical world of politicians, diplomats and red tape.

  There was a patio and a twisted old yew tree that reached up to the bedroom window. Wild bird feeders hung from tree branches, butterflies and birds seemed to be everywhere.

  He laughed. ‘Snow White springs to mind!’

  She pulled a face. ‘It’s twee, isn’t it? Very girly. I bet you hate it.’

  ‘I love it. It’s so you. It’s pretty and generous and, and I’m overwhelmed.’

  Casting him a half disbelieving glance she linked his arm and led him towards the outbuildings.

  There were two barns. One held all her gardening tools – lawn mower, rakes, spades, watering cans; the other, however, was something else.

  The barn door was on a latch and creaked on rusted hinges as Sally opened it. He’d expected it to be dark and dingy and full of junk, but sunlight streaked through the windows despite them being caked in grime and cobwebs. There was a workbench and a wood turner’s lathe beneath a tarpaulin. Nearby was a stone-grinder to sharpen tools and a generator to power everything. Attached to the walls was an array of carpentry tools. He lifted one of the chisels from its rack and felt the steely sharpness against his thumb.

  ‘Unbelievable.’ he said, breathing in the faint lingering smells of cut wood. ‘Don’t tell me you’re a carpenter as well.’

  ‘No. This was all here when I bought the cottage about nine years ago.’ Standing in the centre of the high-ceilinged barn, with the sunlight on her, she looked like she was on a stage, the spotlight highlighting her beauty. ‘This house had been vacant for a while when I bought it. I guess the previous owner was a craftsman. I imagine if the windows were scrubbed this would make a great workshop.’

  Paul strolled around the barn, impressed by its spaciousness and the warmth of the sunlight and the glorious smells of timber. He picked a piece of wood from the floor, just a piece the size of his hand and felt the rough texture of bark against his skin. His thoughts flew backwards.

  He was staring down at small grubby hands whittling away at a piece of wood with a penknife. The knife had three blades and a corkscrew, and the middle of the handle was inlaid with red plastic. He was sitting on the stump of a tree in short trousers, pumps and grey socks. And Owen was building a bonfire.

  5

  That evening Sally cooked dinner. A real home-cooked meal using vegetables that she'd grown in her garden and beef from the local butcher – she'd delighted in telling him. He devoured every mouthful like it was nectar. Life once again held hope. Incredible when, at one time, all hope had gone.

  Now he held a brandy glass in his hands and breathed in its rich aroma as the logs crackled in the fireplace and orange flames danced and flickered before his eyes.

  Sally eased herself from the sofa and kissed the top of his head. ‘I’m going to wash the dishes.’

  ‘No, I’ll do it later,’ he protested but she just smiled.

  ‘Relax. I hope you’re not too warm, I just love a crackling fire, even in summer.’

  He gazed after her. ‘I’m in heaven!’

  The sounds of Sally busying herself around her kitchen was music to his ears. For too long he’d endured television programmes he didn’t really want to watch, volume turned up to banish the silence. Or worse, to mask the sound of screaming. He heard Helena's screams less and less now. Since meeting Sally, hardly at all.

  He sipped the brandy, it warmed his throat and made him drowsy. He drifted, eyes half closed, listening to the crackling of burning logs. Tomorrow he would get a bucket of soapy water and wash down the windows in the barn, inside and out. Maybe get a broom and give the place a good old spring clean. His mind wandered to that penknife, recalling now that he’d got it for his ninth birthday. It had been a gift from Owen.

  The charred logs shifted in the grate and Paul half opened his eyes. He stared into the fire. Vivid red and blue tongues of flame licked upwards, the heart of the fire glowed now like some magical palace. He could see gateways and portcullises. He could see images in the flames.

  He aw
oke suddenly and tried not to look. He wanted to tear his gaze away, but it was too late. His brain conjured up a face amongst the burning embers. A shrieking face, wide-eyed with terror. A face lying sideways at a painfully twisted angle as Helena burned to death. And the screaming was back.

  * * *

  In bed later that night, Paul made love to Sally again. This time it was gentle and slow, leading gradually into a passion that consumed them both. As they fell back against the pillows, the sighs that escaped their lips were ones of satisfaction.

  The bed was far more comfortable than the one he had in London, and all the sounds of the countryside were keeping sleep at bay. Laying back on his pillow with Sally’s arm across his chest he could see a crescent moon through the window. Gazing at it, he tried to distinguish the different noises of the night. Squeaks coming from outside could be rodents, mice or voles maybe, and the louder high-pitched cries made him think that some poor rabbit had fallen prey to a fox.

  ‘Are you listening to it all?’ he murmured. ‘I heard an owl – an owl, Sally! Can you believe that?’

  ‘I’ve seen him,’ Sally murmured, not opening her eyes. ‘He’s a beautiful barn owl. And those gruff grunting sounds, that’s a badger.’

  ‘You’d think the night would be silent, but it’s as noisy as hell.’

  She chuckled. ‘Wait till you hear the dawn chorus!’

  The bedroom window was open, and the breeze gently rustled the open curtains. It was then that Paul heard the scraping, tapping sound against the window pane for the first time.

  As if sensing the sudden tensing of his muscles, Sally's fingers stroked his chest. ‘And that's just the tree, talking to me.’

  Paul looked at her.

  She opened one eye and smiled. ‘I’m not joking. The yew tree likes to whisper its secrets to me.’

  ‘How much wine did you have?’

  Sally mischievously tweaked his nipple. ‘I’m not drunk or mad. Listen.’

  ‘I’m listening.’ But all he could hear were the uneven tapping sounds of wood against glass.

  ‘There!’ said Sally. ‘Hear that? Pa…ul…Christ..ian. It knows your name.’

  He did his best to tune into whatever woodland FM world she was listening to, but heard only the scratch, scratch, scratch sound as the breeze blew twigs and leaves across the glass. In the end he burst out laughing. ‘You’re the Doctor Dolittle of the tree world. What’s that song, ‘I talk to the trees, but they don’t listen to me. I know a man in a white coat who might though.’

  Sally dived on top of him, jabbing him with soft prods and pinches until he was curled up into a ball, laughing and doing his best to fend her off. He won after rolling on top of her and holding her wrists above her head in one hand.

  ‘Okay, Tree Girl, now what are you going to do?’

  ‘Mock, if you like,’ she said, lying passively beneath him. ‘But it’s true. The tree even told me that we were meant to be.’

  He rolled off her. ‘Go on, I’m intrigued.’

  She sat up, the moonlight making her naked skin glow, highlighting the silhouette of her breasts. Paul lay propped up on one elbow, indulging her little fantasy. In fact, the way she looked at that moment, he would have indulged her anything.

  There was excitement in her voice, as if this was something she’d been dying to tell him but had never found the right moment, until now.

  ‘After I’d first met you, and I’d come back here from London wondering if you would call me, like you’d promised, I heard the tree whispering to me. He’s the one. That’s what the scratching said, honestly Paul, it said: He’s the one, he’s the one, he’s the one …’

  6

  Paul couldn’t wait to make a start on the barn after he’d woken up. Firstly though, he contacted his office at Thames House to organise for the IT techs to work their magic. Once communications were working as they should, he dealt with the most urgent messages, not letting it bug him that he was supposed to be having a few days off to get his new home sorted. Besides, it was a delight to have Sally beavering away in the same room. She had a knack of knowing when he was concentrating on work and wasn’t to be disturbed. But occasionally she would stand behind him and massage his neck as he deftly rattled out messages and made calls. For her own part, she was working on some new designs. She was producing ten new shoulder bags in seven colours, she’d explained to him after breakfast.

  She was still hard at it as Paul pressed ‘send’ to his last email and closed down his computer. Leaving Sally with a cup of tea, he changed into his oldest pair of jeans and the least expensive pair of shoes he owned, rolled up his shirt sleeves and headed eagerly towards the barn.

  As he opened the barn door, it seemed to emit a long drawn out sigh. As if it had been waiting with baited breath. He smiled at the fanciful notion. It couldn’t have known he intended sprucing it up – unless, of course, the yew tree had told it.

  He stepped inside, breathing in its smells, seeing the dust particles floating in the light rays through murky windows. It was a long, high barn with four windows at either side, and on the end wall, to his surprise, because he hadn’t spotted it yesterday, hung an axe.

  Like a focal feature it seemed to take pride of place. He walked slowly towards it. It was, in true woodcutter style, a genuine forestry axe. The handle was a four feet long piece of shaped ash, its grain sanded and polished to a deep gloss. The blade was gleaming honed steel, its cutting edge as sharp as a razor. It was hard to imagine it had been hanging here, gathering dust for nine years. He ran his hand along the handle. There was no dust.

  Cautiously, and aware that his heart was thudding, Paul lifted the axe down from its brackets. It was weighty but not too heavy and his hands fitted snugly into the curves and indentations of the wood. It could almost, he thought irrationally, have been hand-made for him.

  He carried the weighty object out of the barn, liking the sensation of handling this primaeval-like tool. He had a few practice swings, it had been a while since he'd handled a weapon like this. It wasn’t something to mess about with. This axe needed treating with respect.

  Readjusting his stance and double-checking that neither Sally nor anyone else was around to get decapitated by his novice actions, he raised the axe to shoulder height and brought it thudding down into the earth. It left a gaping hollow as he pulled it free. Leaning it against the barn wall, he found a small log and placed it carefully on a stump that was clearly meant for the job. It sliced perfectly in two.

  The prospect of cleaning windows lost some of its appeal after using the axe, but Paul stuck to his good intentions, and eventually placed it back on its brackets and fetched a bucket of soapy water and a sponge from the house.

  An hour’s work brought the windows up sparkling clean. Then a good brushing from one end of the barn to the other turned the whole place into a workshop that had distinct possibilities.

  He couldn’t quite put his finger on when the notion first occurred to him. It might have been when he’d just finished washing the windows and the room was bathed in dazzling sunlight – or maybe it was when he was brushing the old sawdust away. But most probably it had been when he first picked up the axe.

  It was, he had to admit, a pie in the sky notion. Yet the prospect filled him with unbelievable excitement. He hadn’t the skill nor the knowhow. He’d be stupid to think otherwise. The only thing he’d ever whittled were stick figures. He remembered now the object he’d been whittling with his penknife as a kid. It had been an animal, a dog or cat. It was hard to tell – although he had the vague feeling that it had been a cat. But basically, it was little more than a stick with four stumpy legs, a head and a tail.

  Anyway, there was no harm in getting the whole place in good working order, and so he set about the generator next, discovering with glee there was petrol in a can, and that it still worked, as did the grinder and the lathe. There was even a small kiln at the rear of the barn. The mechanical whirr of machinery brought Sally to the conserva
tory window. She leant out. He heard her voice as he finally turned the machinery off.

  ‘Does it all still work?’ she shouted.

  ‘Seems to. Don’t laugh, but I’m going to try my hand at this carpentry malarkey. Reckon it will be okay to get a few chunks of wood from the forest – fallen stuff? I’m not planning on chopping down any mighty oaks and have the forestry commission on my back.’

  ‘There’s plenty of it. Have fun!’

  He went back into the barn, walking purposely towards the axe on the far wall. Reverently, he lifted it down and, resting it over his shoulder, he turned and strode out into the sunshine, feeling like some Nordic warrior of yesteryear.

  It was cooler amongst the trees. The massive ash, birch and oak trees spread their branches to form leafy green parasols that shielded earth dwellers from the burning midday sun, he thought whimsically. The glimpse of a grey squirrel scampering across his path delighted him, although he had to admit, you could see squirrels just as easily in Hyde Park.

  Walking further, loving the freedom, loving the solitude, he breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the smell of ferns and wild garlic instead of exhaust fumes and takeaways. Beneath his feet were seasons of dead leaves, cushioning his steps, and occasionally there came a started clap of wings as a wood pigeon lost its nerve and flew to higher branches as he invaded its space.

  He’d walked far enough and the urge to put the axe to good use was rising. He looked around for logs or fallen branches. Ignoring the wood that had fungi living in its cracks, or smothered in moss or held fast by brambles, he walked on.

  The sight of what seemed to be a massive disc-like structure with tentacles bigger than him sprouting from its circumference, literally stopped him in his tracks.

  He saw at once what it was, an uprooted tree – an uprooted oak. A massive uprooted oak that seemed to have just keeled over and died. Although some roots were still attached, and fresh growth evident on lower branches. The weight of this sixty-foot-tall monster had levered up most of its roots as it had crashed down, and a small crater lay at its base, layered with last autumn’s leaves.