“Primrose Cottage,” Peter Tredgarth announced as he stamped on the Land Rover’s brakes. “A horrible name, but it has three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, living room, walled garden at the rear, and one garage. Central heating is being installed. A perfect residence, you will agree, for one loony sister and her live-in nurse?”
“Perfect,” I agreed. I was astonished and pleased. I might have persuaded myself that Elizabeth was going to do the decent thing, but I had not really believed it. Yet Primrose Cottage was indeed perfect. It offered privacy and comfort, as well as restfulness. I felt my worries dropping away. I would be free again.
“The live-in nurse” – Peter had left the motor running – “will be hired from an agency in Cheltenham. The agency specialises in cases like Georgina’s. Naturally the woman will have to be given time off, so the agency will supply weekend cover and supplementary nursing care for two nights a week as part of the contract price.” His voice became heavy with sarcasm. “Does that meet with your approval?”
“I think it sounds marvellous, Peter,” I said warmly.
He sneered at the humility in my voice. “Elizabeth has already shown the cottage to the trustees, and they agree with you. They’ve also interviewed the agency and found them entirely satisfactory.”
“Elizabeth’s been wonderful,” I ate more humble pie, “and I apologise for doubting her.”
He laughed, his victory over me complete. “You’ve got a nerve, John.” He took a silver flask from a pocket of his tweed jacket, unscrewed its cap, and took a long pull. He suddenly looked very morose. “And why the hell would you care about Georgina?”
“I just do.”
“You care about her money,” he said savagely, “but you won’t get it, John. You abdicated, you gave up, you bottled out, you pissed off to sea, and you probably screwed the family by nicking their bloody picture as well.” He began to laugh. I’d never realised before this moment that he was an alcoholic. He’d probably been drinking before I met him, and he would probably be drinking for the rest of the day. “Did you steal that picture?” he asked me suddenly.
“No.”
“She says you did. She says she’s met someone who helped you do it. You’re a fool, John. I suppose you threw the money away?”
“I didn’t steal the picture, Peter.”
He ignored that. “It was left to Elizabeth in your mother’s will.”
“I know.”
“And it ought to go to her,” he said heavily as though making a point I might not have considered before. “She’s got plans for the money, you see.”
“Plans?”
“Buy Stowey back. Run a proper equestrian centre.” He took a pull on the flask, then chuckled. “I think she imagines the Queen coming down to admire the horses, but the point of it is, John, that Elizabeth wants to use the money. She wants to restore the family’s position in society! You don’t, do you? All you want to do is arse around in a boat! If you had any decency at all you’d tell her where the picture is, then disappear.”
“I don’t know where it is, Peter.” I paused. “Who told her I’d stolen it?”
“Buggered if I know.” Nor did he care; it was enough that he shared Elizabeth’s belief in my guilt. He peered at his watch. “She might come home for lunch, so you’d best leave.” He leaned across me to open the door. “Go to the end of the lane and you can catch a bus at the crossroads.”
“No pub lunch?” I asked him.
“Out,” he ordered me. It was hard to believe we had once been friends. Now, whatever his unhappiness, he was on his wife’s side in our family’s civil war.
I climbed out and slammed the Land Rover’s door.
“And don’t tell her I’ve spoken to you!” Lord Tredgarth shouted at me.
“I won’t.”
He took another pull at his flask, then viciously wrenched the steering wheel to slew the Land Rover back towards the farm. I had to jump fast to save myself from being side-swiped by the skidding vehicle. Its rear wheels spattered me with mud as he drove away.
I waited till he had disappeared then walked up the path to Primrose Cottage. The new front door had still not been fitted with a lock, so I pushed into the big living room which was littered with builders’ scraps. The walls were newly painted. A wood stove had been fitted in the old hearth. It was a lovely cottage, its southern windows facing across the water meadows. I wandered into the kitchen where a new double sink had been fitted. There was a pile of builders’ brochures and invoices on the draining board. I sifted idly through them. Only one of the brochures was not about building materials, but was an invitation from a firm which specialised in letting holiday cottages: ‘Do you have an unused farm cottage? Let us turn your empty property into profit!’
I stared through the window. I could see the camp hill across the valley. Why had Peter not wanted me to walk to the Land-rover with him? I tried to dismiss the nagging worry. I wanted to walk away, to go to the crossroads and catch my bus, then to take Sunflower to the limitless freedom of the seas, but there was something wrong here. I looked down at the holiday cottage brochure. Was Elizabeth planning to renovate Primrose Cottage at the expense of Georgina’s fund, then let it to summer visitors?
I leafed through the stained and crumpled paperwork on the draining board. One sheet of paper was a carbon copy of an estimate from a plumbing firm. It was a hefty estimate, covering the installation of a new hot water tank, a central heating boiler, a shower room, and, at the very bottom, for the provision of a stand-pipe and two cold water connections to caravans. The estimate had evidently been successful, for the plumbers were using it as a checklist for work completed. I saw the stand-pipe had already been finished.
I swore very softly, not really believing what I was suspecting, but knowing that I would have to find out for myself. And knowing, too, that if I was right, then my troubles were only just beginning.
I didn’t cross Peter’s land. Instead I walked a mile up the lane, turned south on to the Gloucester road and crossed the stream by the new bridge. Trucks carrying chipboard and frozen chickens thundered past me. At the top of the hill there was a layby where a glum family picnicked within yards of the growling lorries. I walked past them and climbed over the gate on to Peter’s property. The mud track had been newly used. I followed it a hundred yards through the screen of dark trees, then through the tangled undergrowth to where a clearing had been hacked out in the old camp.
Two caravans stood on the concrete foundation slabs of the old huts. Around the slabs the undergrowth had been cleared away with a harrow, leaving scarred raw earth in which the first nettles were already growing. The caravans were quite large, but clearly second-hand. Both were locked. The stand-pipe was between them. Their windows were obscured by net curtains.
Two caravans. One for Georgina, and the other for whom? Girls from the west of Ireland, perhaps, inveigled by an advertisement in a Catholic newspaper? Such girls came cheap. My mother had used them as servants and I imagined Elizabeth would do the same. She would pretend that Primrose Cottage was to be Georgina’s home, and doubtless it would be for a few months, and doubtless the Cheltenham agency would provide the nursing care, but after a while it would all quietly change and Georgina would be shuttled up the hill to this dank tomb of a wood, and Primrose Cottage could be profitably let to appreciative holiday-makers. And all of it would be done with Georgina’s money.