Page 10 of The Christmas Invitation
I froze, and it wasn’t because I’d caught the full blast of the icy wind whistling down off the moors, or the glacialexpression of horrified disbelief in his dark moss agate-green eyes … eyes that could also look as velvet-soft as catkins.
But they weren’t soft now.
Memories of the Lex Mariner I’d once known shuffled quickly through my mind: striding through the art college, his tumbled black curls, his long dark coat flapping, his winged brows and narrow face with its thin, curved nose that gave him the look of a young hawk, the sound of his deep voice raised in some artistic discussion … and another memory, long suppressed: the feel of his arms around me.
Then it all morphed into the man standing in front of me, an older version, with lines of pain and endurance etched on his face like a map of the past.
I felt myself flush hotly and then the blood drained away into my boots: old wounds might heal on the surface, yet underneath, remain raw. I never thought I’d see him again – and I hadn’t wanted to.
The feeling appeared to be mutual, for without a word he swung on his heel, climbed back into his cab, executed a tight three-point turn and roared off, spattering me and my van in gravel.
Stoned – and I’d never even been guilty as charged.
5
All Enveloping
A voice finally broke into my stunned reverie, in which, among other chaotic thoughts, a strong desire to get into the van and head straight back to London was forming.
‘Miss ’Arkness?’ it said.
I turned and found that a small, entirely bald man with a friendly, simian face was bobbing about next to me. He was attired in an over-large brown linen overall.
‘Where’s ’is ’ighness gorn off to in such an ’urry?’
The roar of the pick-up’s engine receded like a lion down the valley and then was gone. Without waiting for an answer, the man continued, ‘I’m Den, cook and dogsbody round ’ere. Yer to go in – drawing room’s on the left. They’re all waiting for yer. I’ll bring yer cases, if you show me what you want, won’t I?’
‘Oh, right,’ I said, finally getting my vocal cords to work and leading the way to the back of the van. ‘Just that holdall and the suitcase. I’ll leave the painting gear and everything else for later.’
‘Right you are,’ he said, swinging my luggage down. He sniffed, his flattened nose wrinkling slightly. ‘If you don’tmind me saying so, there’s a strange smell in this ’ere van. Notbad– just … funny.’
‘It’s mostly coriander, I think. Friends sometimes use the van to deliver herbs from their market garden.’
‘That would account fer it, then,’ he said. ‘And if you give me yer keys, I’ll move the van round the side in a bit, where it’s more sheltered, ain’t it?’
I had no idea, nor could I quite place his accent. There seemed to be elements of Cockney, but overlaid with later strata that were less easy to pigeonhole.
I shut the door again. ‘That man who just left …’ I began, cautiously.
‘Lex Mariner, Clara’s nephew.’ Den picked up my luggage as if it was as insubstantial as a cloud, which it wasn’t, due to my having shoved several books in there, plus my wellies. ‘She was expecting ’im to come in fer tea, be introduced to you, like, but ’e must ’ave ’ad something urgent to do. Maybe Teddy knows.’
I assumed that to be the small boy – could he be Lex’s son? I took my tapestry shoulder bag and followed Den up the steps and through a vestibule with a half-glazed door into a vast hall, from which a grand staircase curved upwards into darkness. The eagle sitting on the barley sugar-twist newel post at the bottom looked as if it was about to swoop forward and carry me off in its huge talons.
Den nodded to a door on the left. ‘In there. Unfreeze yer marrow while I dump yer bags and fetch in fresh tea – unless Tottie’s already on the case.’
As he bent to pick my luggage up again, the collar of the brown overall rode down and I could see a tattoo on the back of his neck. It was a luridly coloured arrow pointing upwards, underneath it the words, ‘This way up.’
‘Interesting tattoo,’ I commented.
‘Ta. Got it done in Brixton. Passes the time, don’t it?’
‘I suppose it does,’ I agreed, slightly startled. Could he mean Brixton as in prison? Did they spend the long hours tattooing things on each other … with sharp instruments? Surely not!
He plodded off upwards, refusing my offer to take one of the bags, and I turned my steps towards the drawing-room door. The hall was cavernous and dark, so that you could only just discern the outline of a vast coat-stand, wooden chairs with pointed canopies, a long table pushed against one wall and a grandfather clock ticking heavily away, like the heartbeat of the house. The floor was tiled in a beautiful pattern of oak leaves in ochre red and sage green, and the air was fragranced with lavender polish and pot-pourri, plus a slight overlay of damp dog.
But on opening the door, I blinked as I found myself in a very large room that dazzled the eye with light. It was painted a bright shade of golden yellow, to start with, hung with many gilded mirrors, and illuminated by a huge and glittering chandelier. The furnishings were an eclectic mix of twenties-style squishy velvet sofas and chairs, hideous camel saddle stools and Egyptian leather poufs. Ancient Eastern carpets hung on every spare bit of wall and a full-sized statue of the god Anubis was standing right next to me. He was wearing a gilded loin cloth and a very beachcomber straw hat with a frayed brim, adorned with a faded ribbon.
There were several people grouped around a roaring fire, like a slightly offbeat illustration forHomes and Gardens, and they had all turned to look at me.
