Secrets. Freya NorthЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter Two

      Joe could hear her, clattering around. He listened to his furniture being moved and he wondered if he minded. When all went quiet he reckoned she was making the beds – he'd heard the yawn of the linen cupboard door being opened repeatedly, as if she was searching for the best thread-counts. The other house-sitters had always come so prepared. Some had come positively armoured, especially those from agencies. They never seemed much interested in his offer of a home from home – instead, they turned up bringing portable habitats with them – boxes and suitcases of pillows, towels, lamps, TVs. One young man brought his own cutlery and a bespoke wooden container for it, the Scottish lady brought her own armchair and Joe doubted that she ever sat in one of his. It was as if they pitied Joe or disapproved of the contents on offer and so constructed their self-contained pods within the fabric of his home. Which was probably why they were happy to move on – however long they stayed, the charms of the old house never seduced them and Joe ended up thanking them far more than they thanked him.

      He had helped Tess in with her bulging suitcase and numerous bags that appeared to contain solely the accoutrements required by a toddler. There was an iron on the passenger seat of her car and a box on the back seat billowing wafts of the Cleveland Gazette. She told him it contained two bone-china cups and saucers and would he mind if she put them in the kitchen. They were her Grandma's, apparently, and made tea taste its best. The footwell in the back was taken up with carrier bags full of vinyl LPs, which Joe said she was welcome to unpack in his sitting room. There were also three taped-up cardboard boxes in her boot. He'd offered to bring these in – but she'd said, they'll stay there, thank you very much, as if they were in disgrace.

      That was a couple of hours ago. He hadn't seen her since, but she'd been calling down to him at various intervals. Checking it was OK for her to swap the lampshade in ‘her’ room for the one in the top bedroom. And did he mind if she brought in the bedside drawers from the other bedroom. And could she move the single bed in Em's room through to the furthest bedroom because the iron bedstead concerned her and the paint was probably lead-based. And if she moved the Persian rug from that furthest bedroom into Em's room, would that be all right? Because then the iron bed wouldn't put unsightly dints into it and anyway what a shame for such a lovely rug to be stashed away in an unused bedroom. Joe really didn't need the details, or the rationale, and in the end he shouted from the bottom of the staircase, mi casa su casa– sorry, but I really need to crack on with my work. And she called down, oh! sorry! And he called up, don't worry. And she called down, OK! sorry again! And he didn't call back up. But he found that he did wait until he heard the floor-boards creaking again before he closed the study door.

      He saw to his emails, organized his diary, looked through his file and then went to sit at his drawings. It was always the same when he next looked at his watch. He tapped it, held it to his ear as if it had malfunctioned and could not possibly be telling the correct time. It was gone nine o'clock and it was very quiet upstairs. Even in the silence, another's presence in the house was palpable and a few minutes later it became apparent that it was so quiet upstairs because actually she was downstairs, in the kitchen. Help yourself, he'd said earlier and he assumed she was now doing just that. He was tempted to wander in on the pretext of a cup of tea and was about to do so when a glance at his drawings and their glaringly overdue incompleteness drew him to his desk.

      But then she started singing.

      He wished she wouldn't.

      Not that she couldn't hold a tune.

      Just that it was a distraction.

      He switched the radio on and tuned it to the World Service and turned the volume down so the voices sounded hushed, reverential, as if in a library. He concentrated on the plans in front of him, his initial freehand drawings on torn scraps Blu-tacked around the large sweep of graph paper; notes and measurements and calibrations pinned around his desk.

      It was odd having young female energy in the house. It was unexpectedly compelling, really. New and different. But of what concern was it to him? He'd be away, mostly. France at the beginning of next week. London. Possibly the Far East later in the year. A trip to California in the late autumn. Various interludes in Belgium in between.

      Concentrate.

      It's only the house sitter finding her way.

      Tess was making an omelette when she caught sight of a photo of Joe propped against a milk jug on the Welsh dresser. She had wondered whether she should offer to cook for him too, or if that was more a housekeeper's job than a house-sitter's. She decided not to. Anyway, there were only two eggs left and he looked like a three-to-four-in-an-omelette type of bloke. She'd make him a cup of tea instead, builder's tea not gnat's pee, and leave it outside his study door, knock once and then disappear. Perhaps she'd make it in one of her own teacups. Or would that be rude? Would that suggest she thought his crockery not good enough? Or was she being slightly ridiculous? First she needed to have her food and a sit-down. Her back was nagging – she'd never driven such a distance and then manoeuvred so much furniture before unpacking her life to make things just right for Em, now sound asleep in her new room. She took her plate to the table, picking up the photo of Joe on her way. He was younger then; his hair not so flecked. Bare-chested and tanned, wearing baggy khaki shorts, work boots and a hard hat. There was a bridge in the background. San Francisco, perhaps. He was smiling, looked ecstatic, actually. Probably grinning at a girlfriend, Tess thought. They probably swapped positions and somewhere there's a picture of her in front of this bridge too. Is it San Francisco? Perhaps not – isn't the Golden Gate Bridge a reddish colour? She put the photo back. Glanced at a postcard in pidgin English from a Giselle Someone, postmarked Brasil a couple of years ago. Tess liked to browse recipes while she ate but there appeared to be no cookery books, only an old National Geographic on top of the pile of unopened letters and discarded post on the kitchen table. She tapped Joe's chest in the photo. Bet you're one for the ladies, she thought.

      She sat down and gazed at the food on her plate. She marvelled at how Em had been so compliant, eaten well, welcomed sleep so amiably for once. Tess smiled at the thought of her daughter snuggled down for a really good night's sleep. In a house. Fingers crossed she'd sleep through tonight – Tess knew she was in desperate need of a few hours’ total rest herself and she wasn't sure how Joe would react to Em's midnight or dawn chorus. Or Wolf for that matter. She felt she'd done a good job making Em's room homey and suitable; finding a low bookshelf in one of the attic rooms on which she'd arranged Em's toys invitingly. She'd vacuumed the Persian rug and placed it centrally so that Em had somewhere warm on top of the bare floorboards on which to play. She'd tacked up the paper border she'd bought ages ago but had never fixed to the rented walls in London. Funny how she'd thought to bring it with them. She'd used sellotape, lightly because she planned to ask Joe if she could do it properly, with paste. She'd ask him tomorrow because by tomorrow she suspected there'd be a lot more to ask him. She'd make a list in bed.

      The omelette tasted so good. She hadn't eaten all day because her car had needed fuel more than she had and