Yesterday’s Sun. Amanda Brooke
had recovered from their early morning hysteria and settled into just the occasional midday tweets by the time Holly pulled on her sweats, tied back her hair and dragged herself into the kitchen to make a strong cup of coffee. She spotted Tom’s half-empty mug of coffee abandoned on the kitchen table and bit her lip to stifle a sob that appeared from nowhere.
‘You pathetic idiot,’ she told herself. ‘Mrs Bronson’s sculpture isn’t going to create itself.’
She took a deep breath and pulled her shoulders back, willing herself to find the motivation to start moving. As she exhaled, her body sagged like a deflated balloon. She tried again and, before her resolve was allowed to falter a second time, she picked up Tom’s mug, gently washed it and put it away, out of sight.
Armed with her coffee, Holly shuffled into the study, where her heart sank a little further. Although this had temporarily become Holly’s domain while the studio was being finished off, it was always intended to be Tom’s room. Tom, however, wasn’t around to make it his own.
The study was at the front of the house and had an open fire, a large bay window and pastel-coloured, flowery wallpaper, all the essentials for a warm and welcoming country cottage feel. In her current mood, however, Holly could see only a cold and uninviting, heartbreakingly empty room. The clean, modern lines of the city-living furniture Holly and Tom had brought with them no longer seemed like a quirky contrast but rather a violent clash of two alien worlds. She was starting to think she was never going to adjust to country life.
The distraction of the decor was too much, so after a half-hearted attempt to make a start at her work she picked herself up and shuffled into the more spacious living room. It had windows to both the front and the back of the house, but even with so much more natural light to work in, she still couldn’t settle.
Eventually Holly returned to the kitchen, which was the one room she had no intention of changing. The only furniture they had added was a large wooden kitchen table that had belonged to Grandma Edith. The table had history, a good history.
At last, Holly’s thoughts turned to her commission. The showdown with Mrs Bronson was now only three days away. She had a couple of concepts she thought would suit her client’s taste, but she still hadn’t been able to find something that she personally could put her heart into. She needed to believe in the piece if she was going to bring the chosen design to life. Taking the job had been purely financial and she wasn’t proud of that fact. The end result wasn’t going to be just about the money, though: her conscience wouldn’t let it. She wasn’t prepared to produce something that she wouldn’t want to put her name to.
Holly picked up the two sketches which were on the short list so far. One was of a mother and child, their arms curved around each other in an unbroken circle. The concept wasn’t exactly original, but she intended to make the piece by merging etched black stone with white, which was a trademark she was becoming renowned for. The second sketch showed a swirling image of a mother twirling a child through the air. It had more energy than the first and of the two it was the one Holly preferred. There was still something missing, though. She suspected it lacked the emotional connection between the two figures, something which she knew too little of and it showed in the sketches.
Startled from her inner thoughts by a knock at the door, Holly crept down the hallway and did a quick check in the mirror, which was now properly hung in place on the wall next to the door. She seriously considered running back into the kitchen to hide rather than frighten off her unknown caller with her sullen features and unkempt hair. If she had still been in London it would have been an easy option to take, but here in the village, she felt obliged to welcome her visitor. Reluctantly, Holly opened the door.
‘Hello, you must be Holly. I hope I didn’t disturb you.’ A grey-haired woman with deep brown eyes was sheltering under a huge blue-and-white polka dot umbrella. The rain was thumping savagely against it but, despite her frail appearance, the old lady kept the umbrella firm in her grasp.
‘Not at all,’ lied Holly, unconsciously rubbing her cheeks to bring some colour to her complexion. She opened her mouth to continue but then had a lengthy internal debate with herself, wondering whether or not to invite this woman into her home.
Was she an old, lonely lady looking for company, a nosy busybody on the hunt for gossip to spread across the village, or a well-disguised saleswoman selling something? Of course, she might simply be what she appeared. A friendly face, welcoming Holly to the community. Whatever the answer, Holly could write off the rest of the afternoon if she let the old lady cross the threshold, but failure to do the right thing now could see her ostracized from the village. She’d been warned by her fellow townies that if you upset the wrong person then a village feud could last generations. Those particular townies had never set foot outside the city and Holly knew it was just scaremongering, but then Holly didn’t want to take any chances.
‘Perhaps it’s the wrong time to call,’ the woman suggested sympathetically. ‘I’m Jocelyn and I live just down the road in the village. It was only a quick call to introduce myself, but please, tell me to go away if you want. Really, I’ve got the skin of a rhino, I won’t be offended.’
‘No, please, where are my manners? Come in.’
Holly relieved Jocelyn of her umbrella and her overcoat and led her into the kitchen. She quickly cleared away her artwork and made space for Jocelyn to sit down. Jocelyn was looking around the room and a gentle smile curved her lips.
‘Would you like a hot drink to warm you up?’ offered Holly.
‘No, honestly, I won’t put you to any trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble, I was about to get another cup for myself.’
With the polite debate laid to rest, Holly put the kettle on and rummaged through the cupboards for proper teacups and some biscuits to offer her guest.
‘I heard you’re a successful artist and now I can see why. These drawings are amazing,’ Jocelyn said, tapping one of the sketches Holly had put to one side.
‘Thank you. It keeps me out of trouble.’ Holly had only met a handful of people from the village so far. For the last two weeks, she and Tom had been too wrapped up in their own company to pursue introductions with their neighbours beyond the occasional polite ‘hello’. It shouldn’t have surprised her, however, that the village grapevine had already sized them up.
‘Billy has been telling me all about your new studio. He’s quite proud of it.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Holly didn’t see really and was trying to make the right connections. Jocelyn must know Billy quite well, but she looked at least eighty years old, while Billy was perhaps early sixties. ‘You’re not Billy’s wife, are you?’ Holly blushed at her own bluntness.
‘Good grief, no,’ laughed Jocelyn. ‘He’s a good friend and I love him to bits, but I can only take Billy in small doses.’
Holly laughed. ‘I think I know what you mean. He does seem rather set in his ways. He certainly gave Tom a hard time for going off and leaving me.’ Presuming that Jocelyn wouldn’t know Tom was working away, Holly explained herself more. ‘Tom left for Belgium this morning and he’ll be away for six long weeks.’
‘Yes, I know, it’s why I called around, really,’ Jocelyn admitted with an awkward smile. ‘Billy thought you might need a shoulder to cry on and it was either me or him.’
Holly wondered if there was anything in their lives that would remain private. It was certainly going to take her a while to get used to village life. Perhaps there was a village committee that would need to ratify her next five-year plan, she thought to herself.
‘Well, thank you for being so thoughtful,’ replied Holly, and she actually meant it. Tom’s parents had promised to check on her regularly, but they were two villages away. The few friends she had were all in London and she was just starting to realize that the emptiness she had felt when Tom left was as much to do with feeling isolated as it had been to do with the absence of bodies in the house.
‘It’s not a problem,’ Jocelyn