Page 6 of The Diary at the Last House Before the Sea

He brought the car to a halt at the foot of the wide stone steps that led up to the front door, and took his hands off the steering wheel.

‘Are you getting out then?’ asked Bartie, undoing his seat belt. ‘Your dad’s champing at the bit, and I bet you can’t wait to set foot again in this impressive pile. Not a bad inheritance, eh?’

‘Mmm,’ murmured River, before summoning up his courage, opening the door and unfolding himself from the driving seat. A breeze was blowing through the trees and he inhaled the fresh smell of the sea.

River plastered on a smile and said, ‘Hello, Father,’ before walking up the steps towards him. The older man stepped forward and River had a sudden urge to throw his arms around this man whom he hadn’t seen for almost three years. But his father, as always, stuck out his hand to be shaken.

‘River, old chap. It’s good to see you. You look…tired…but it’s a long drive from London.’

‘It is,’ said River, noting the slight hitch in his father’s sentence. He knew he looked tired because he was still jet-lagged after his flight from Sydney. But he couldn’t help feeling that ‘tired’ wasn’t the word that had first popped into his father’s head. Perhaps the word he’d left unsaid was ‘disappointing’. He ran a hand down his jeans, the smartest pair he owned.

His father suddenly looked past him to the car and a smile broke across his face. ‘Bartie! You didn’t tell me that Bartholomew would be accompanying you today.’

‘It was a last-minute decision,’ said River, as Bartie bounded up the steps, two at a time.

‘Hello, Sir Geoffrey! How marvellous to see you again. It’s been too long.’

‘It has, indeed.’

Before Geoffrey could say anything more, Bartie pulled the older man into a bear hug and patted him on the back before releasing him.

Geoffrey’s face registered surprise at this unexpected manhandling but he didn’t look unduly annoyed.

Maybe I should have ignored his outstretched hand and hugged him, thought River, feeling that he’d somehow fallen at the first hurdle.

‘Can you stay for a few days, along with River?’ Geoffrey asked Bartie, who nodded his head.

‘Absolutely. You and I have lots to catch up on and, of course, I’m happy to help with the issue that’s brought River home.’

Geoffrey glanced at the people patiently waiting and frowned. ‘That’s good to hear, but we should discuss that later, rather than here.’

Bartie touched the side of his nose. ‘Of course. Mum’s the word.’

‘And now you must both come and say hello to a few people,’ said Geoffrey, leaning over to pat the dog which was running in circles, chasing its tail. ‘Calm down, Grayson! I’m afraid he’s always like this when he encounters a stranger.’

River supposed that’s what he was now, in this magnificent old house that he’d once called home. A stranger making a fleeting visit before jetting back to his real life. A cuckoo in the nest.

As Geoffrey led the way into the hall, Bartie murmured into River’s ear: ‘Servants lining up to greet us. It’s just like Downton Abbey.’

Hoping no one had heard his cousin’s remark, River made his way along the line, shaking hands and feeling acutely embarrassed by all the fuss.

‘River, you must remember Mrs Netherway, my housekeeper,’ said his father when they reached the end of the welcoming committee.

So, Mrs Netherway was still here, keeping the house going. River remembered her, all right. Both for her kindness and for the choc-chip cookies she used to make him. He could almost smell them still, as they came out of the oven, caramelised and golden.

She looked much the same – small and slight with dark hair, now greying – but she still had the air of a coiled spring, ready to leap into action. She’d always been a human dynamo, keeping his father and this house going.

‘River, it’s so wonderful to have you home at last,’ she said with a beaming smile. She stepped forward as if she planned to hug him but then stepped back.

River smiled. ‘It’s good to see you too, Mrs N.’

‘And this,’ said his father, ‘is Clara, who helped out while Mrs Netherway was absent following the sad death of her husband last year. She’s Mrs Netherway’s daughter. You knew each other when you were children.’

‘Yes, I remember,’ said River quietly, saddened that Mr Netherway had died and he hadn’t known about it. He had fond memories of the man who had taught him to ride his bike and to whittle arrows from fallen branches in the garden.

‘Hello, River,’ said Clara, her voice low and soft.

He looked at her properly for the first time. The house didn’t appear to have changed over the years he’d been away. But Clara certainly had.

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