In Your Silence

  In Your

  Silence

  Grace Lowrie

  Silence is more musical than any song.

  – Christina Rossetti

  Chapter One

  She’d left me. My girlfriend of nearly six years just upped and left without warning. The first I knew of it was tripping over her house keys on the doormat and spotting an apologetic note stuck to the fridge. Which explained precisely nothing:

  I’m sorry but it’s over. I can’t stay. Please don’t try to find me.

  It’s not your fault, it’s nothing you’ve done, it’s just over, I’m sorry.

  Goodbye, Cally.

  Nonplussed I re-read it several times. Calm, practical Cally; this wasn’t like her. We never fought, never argued; I thought we were happy; content.

  Dumping my muddy boots at the back door I searched the rest of our terraced two-bed house, room by room, ducking my six-and-a-half foot frame, stepping crab-like through doorways and scanning the remaining space as if it was all a mistake, a game of hide and seek, or an elaborate joke – I certainly felt like a fool. But it was the second of April today – the deadline for pranks had passed. She’d taken all her clothes, most of her toiletries, her laptop, mobile, passport; even that big old stuffed bunny of hers.

  Returning to the kitchen I dug my own phone out of my pocket and speed-dialled her number, but it went straight to voicemail and I suspected she had it switched off. Having left a brief message asking her to call me, I rang Cally’s best friend, Marguerite. She was still at work in London and apparently surprised to hear from me. She claimed to have no knowledge of Cally’s plans or whereabouts, but then, what had I expected her to say? She was loyal to Cally – she’d only say whatever Cally wanted her to say, and I didn’t know Marguerite well enough to be sure she was lying.

  Climbing into the van, I drove over to Marguerite’s flat above the gift card shop. I listened at the door before hammering on it; but there were no signs of life from within. Should I call Cally’s parents in Spain? Was that where she’d run off to? Did she just need a break; a holiday? Cally’s mum and dad had seemed to ‘approve’ of me on the one and only occasion we’d met, but they were unlikely to help me against Cally’s wishes. And anyway, I didn’t have their number.

  What to do? Returning home again I paced about in my socks, dried mud flaking off the knees of my trousers as I brushed past the furniture that we’d picked out as a couple – evidence of the life we shared. The framed black and white photograph above the fireplace caught my eye, showing the two of us side by side, and smiling.

  This wasn’t us – we didn’t do drama and she knew I didn’t like surprises. I had to find her; figure out what had gone wrong and fix it, so that the world could go back to normal.

  My phone vibrated in my hand and I hoped it was Cally, but it was James. Muting the cheery ringtone I deliberated answering while his name flashed on the screen. He was my best mate; had been since school; ever since his mum died a few short years after my own. We never spoke about our grief, but it created a bond between us; a bond reinforced through playing rugby and helping each other survive our teens. Aside from a few years in which we’d attended different universities, we’d always kept in touch. And now that he’d moved back to Wildham our friendship was stronger than ever.

  But I wasn’t ready to share my ‘news’ yet; my increasing sense of shame. James would be occupied at the garden centre for the next few days – Easter weekend was always busy – and that gave me time to find my girlfriend and put things right before anyone found out.

  She would change her mind and come back, I was sure of it; she had to; all she needed was time.

  *

  Eight weeks later I was sat in my local with my head in my hands.

  ‘Orange juice or coke?’ James said.

  ‘I’ll have a pint of lager.’

  ‘Lager?’ I met James’s shocked expression with a standard blank one. ‘But you don’t drink.’

  ‘I do today.’

  He hovered uneasily by our table and I sighed.

  ‘I’m teetotal by choice, not because I’m an alcoholic.’

  ‘I know, but... Liam... you haven’t had a drink for years, are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll buy it myself if it makes you feel better?’

  ‘No, no, you deserve a drink and I’m happy to buy you one, only...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you’ve coped without her for two whole months... are you sure you want to do this to yourself now?’

  He was right of course. I was feeling frustrated, foolish and sorry for myself, but I’d gotten this far; did I really want to make things worse...?

  ‘Orange juice,’ I grunted.

  ‘Good choice.’ He was clearly relieved as he headed for the bar.

  Several pints later James was drunk on my behalf. We were debating rugby tactics, reminiscing about school days, and studiously avoiding the subject of our failed search for Cally. She’d ignored all my messages, made absolutely no attempt to contact me and if her friends knew her whereabouts, they were keeping it to themselves. Like a couple of amateur pseudo-detectives we’d spent our spare time searching for clues and chasing leads but we’d come up empty. She simply didn’t want to be found. And if I was honest with myself, brutally honest, it wasn’t so much her absence that hurt – it was my pride.

  At closing I made my way to the door while James visited the men’s room. Outside in the dark it was pissing with rain; it had been for days. I didn’t mind it so much; it matched my mood. Before venturing out there I half-heartedly scanned the community noticeboard, crammed with colourful bits of paper. Between a leaflet promoting a charity raffle and a depressing missing persons poster, my eyes alighted on a small, neatly-typed card:

  WANTED: Qualified landscaper to renovate the dilapidated grounds of a local estate for a modest fee. Please enquire at the number below.

  I snorted. The key phrase there was ‘modest fee’. In my experience the more money a person had, the more reluctant they were to spend it. Even so, the position piqued my interest and might provide the distraction I needed. For the last ten years I’d been working for my brother, Lester; helping him build up his gardening business. It was now a great success – we had more than fifty maintenance contracts, both commercial and residential, which provided employment for six of us all year-round. Between us we’d built up a solid local reputation to be proud of, and being able to work outside suited me; I would never survive being stuck in an office day in, day out. But mowing the same lawns, trimming the same hedges, and mulching the same flower beds week after week wasn’t enough for me.

  At Cally’s suggestion I’d taken evening classes in horticulture, planting design and hard landscaping. Maybe it was time to put those new skills to the test. Ripping the advert off the noticeboard I slipped it into my back pocket as James ambled towards me.

  ‘D’you call a cab?’

  ‘Nah, let’s walk.’ I slapped him on the back and his grimace made me smile as I stepped out into the cleansing rain.

  Chapter Two

  Outside it was another dreary damp squib of a day. I’d put on a dress this morning in defiance of the miserable weather, and now, at last, the rain had stopped. My work had taken longer than anticipated and the sun had dropped below the horizon, but I was still keen to escape the house. Before leaving I switched the chandelier on in the formal dining room so that light spilled out of the windows, illuminating a patch of dark terrace outside. Bypassing the kitchen I grabbed a coat from the boot room, made my way out through the laundry room, and then around to the south-facing side of the house.

  It wasn’t my coat – it was a heavy synthetic furry thing lined with silk, and it swamped my tiny frame, but I wore it of
ten. The lining was starting to shred into ribbons and the once-white fur was now beige and caked with mud at the hem where it dragged behind my feet like a train. It was once Cornelia’s.

  I had no recollection of her wearing it, but then I had few memories of her at all. The ones I did have I suspect I’d concocted from photographs. Lifting one side of the collar I sniffed at it, but instead of her perfume I smelled only damp earth and mothballs.

  Below the dining room windows I settled myself on the terrace, where the sturdy nineteenth century stonework was sheltered from the worst of the weather and it was drier beneath my bum. The moon was not yet visible from here, but the clouds were dissipating like fog and a few stars were starting to burn through the indigo blanket above.

  A sharp cry made me jump and in the distance a fox trotted out of the shadowy undergrowth and across the scruffy field that was once a sweeping lawn. His sleek form and nimble trot were compelling to observe, but this was a dangerous place for him to be. Picking up a crumbling piece of paving and weighing it in my hand I chucked it in the direction of the wild animal in warning. The rock landed several metres short of him and he simply continued his unhurried progress with aloof disregard for me. Before long he had disappeared from view. Goodnight Mr Fox.

  Sitting out in the evenings gave my eyes a rest from the computer screen, allowed my lungs to fill with fresh air and reminded me there was a whole world beyond my own. Which was good to know, even if I no longer explored far beyond the back door.

  As a kid, back when the grounds were floriferous and neatly maintained, I would spend hours outside; reading books on the lawn, climbing trees, collecting blooms and bugs, riding my bicycle, or simply hiding under a bush. But the elderly couple who did all the gardening had retired several years previously, and since then the manicured gardens had become a sprawling wilderness. It was still my own private territory, a place to escape to if necessary, but nowadays, with the paths overgrown with nettles and riddled with potholes, it was too easy to get stung, twist an ankle, or fall in the lake and drown. And who would notice? Who would come to my aid? Absolutely no-one.

  From the other side of the house came the creeping crunch of gravel beneath car tyres; signalling the approach of the black Mercedes which spent most of its life parked at the airport. My heart sank. He was back a day earlier than expected. Drawing my knees up I wrapped the fur coat tighter around me. It was getting late, maybe he wouldn’t bother to come and find me. I should have left the lights off to make myself harder to locate.

  After fifteen minutes or so I began to relax, serenaded by the haunting hoot of an owl. But his voice sliced through the hush.

  ‘Beautiful night, isn’t it?’ Pungent cigar smoke preceded him, unfurling, and invading the still air. Not waiting for a reply, Gregory advanced across the terrace to the crumbling balustrade, his Italian leather shoes sharply accenting his footsteps and leaving a trail of crushed weeds in their wake. ‘I think it’s about time we got the grounds tidied up, don’t you? It really is a jungle out here,’ he added, taking another puff on his cigar.

  A few moments ago I’d been lamenting the loss of the pretty landscape of my childhood, but now that he was suggesting reinstating it, I hated the idea.

  ‘I can feel that look from here,’ he said, turning back to me with a jarring smile. ‘I know you don’t like having workmen about the place, but the grounds are really letting this place down. And it would be far nicer to have tidy plants to look out at instead of this mess, wouldn’t it?’

  As he walked towards me, his suit jacket hanging open and one hand placed in his trouser pocket, I pressed my lips together. He stood over me and I refused to look at him. ‘Come on, Melody, let’s go inside.’ He held one hand out to help me up and the whiskey on his breath made my stomach roll. Folding my arms across my chest I turned away. ‘You can’t stay out here all night. I’ll carry you inside if I have to...’ he warned.

  Reluctantly I got to my feet, without his help, and ducked past him, but not fast enough. Grabbing my hand he halted me mid-step. The amused, glassy look in his eyes was one I recognised from previous occasions when he’d come home drunk. It made me uneasy.

  ‘I wish you’d smile more,’ he said softly. ‘All I’ve ever asked for is your happiness... I... there are things I...’ He hugged my hand to his chest, where his stale body heat leached through his silk shirt. Withholding the emotion from my face I stared blankly back at him and at length he released my hand with a defeated sigh. He didn’t try to catch me as I fled back inside, coat billowing, and took the main stairs two at a time.

  Chapter Three

  The vast entrance gates to Wildham Hall were like something from a fairytale – an elaborate tangled briar of wrought iron, topped with ornate rose finials – Gothic and imposing.

  I had driven past them countless times without ever catching a glimpsing of the property they guarded within. But now I was here by invitation, and despite the bright June sunshine and the birds singing in the trees, a shiver ran up my spine as the gates clanked slowly open before me.

  The narrow drive was walled in with overgrown shrubs and roofed by woven tree branches, blocking out the sun and creating the impression of a long, winding tunnel. Beneath the tyres of my van the gravel was balding, potholed and lumpy, making for a slow and bumpy approach. Pruning back the trees and relaying the drive would be my first suggestion for improving this place, but I had a feeling the restoration list would grow and grow.

  Where the trees cleared, the drive opened out before a large, elegant, stone-built house adorned with an array of tall bay windows, Gothic pinnacles and chimneys. Though weathered with age, the house appeared to have been well-maintained compared to the grounds; the woodwork freshly painted and the glazing reflecting the sky like mirrors.

  As I parked up and headed for the front porch, a man in a tailored navy suit and a purple tie descended the steps towards me. His smile faltered slightly as he took in my size, but he politely extended a hand in welcome and I shook it.

  ‘Mr Hunt?’

  ‘Yes. Please call me Liam.’

  ‘Welcome to Wildham Hall, Liam, I’m Gregory Sinclair – we spoke on the phone.’

  He was about my age, though considerably smaller in stature; then again, so were most people. In a bid to minimise the height difference between us he had stopped on the lowest step, but from my vantage point it was still obvious that he used gel to try and disguise the thinning of his hair.

  ‘Have you been in an accident?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, no, excuse the state of me – I play rugby for the Wildham Warriors – we were practising yesterday and my face got in the way of another player’s knee...’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ he said, relaxing slightly. ‘Well, thank you for coming, shall I show you around and then you can ask me any questions as we go?’

  ‘Great, thanks.’

  ‘The Hall is Victorian, as you can see.’ Sinclair set off across the drive. ‘It was built in 1870 by my ancestors and has remained in the family ever since.’

  I followed him around the side of the house to where a vast York stone terrace, in need of re-pointing, was edged with a crumbling, ornate balustrade. At intervals, wide, generous steps led down to the garden below, flanked by long parterres, over-run with weeds. The box-hedge borders were ballooning and in desperate need of clipping. Beyond these once-formal beds, a large, flat meadow of grass, which I was informed was once a manicured lawn, spread out like the skirt of a dress before the land dropped away. From that point a seemingly wild, rural landscape of lush fields and trees unfurled as far as the eye could see. By squinting I could picture the tidy parkland of yesteryear; sweeping grassland dotted with specimen trees, wild deer, and sinuously criss-crossed with compacted-gravel paths.

  As we advanced across the terrace I sensed I was being watched from the upper windows of the house, but politely refrained from turning to check. I made copious notes and took pictures while Sinclair pointed out key features – a procession
of blobby shrubs that were once identifiable topiary animals; a long avenue of unruly lime trees that marched away into the distance; a sunken area overwhelmed with brambles.

  ‘This was originally a rose garden I believe...’

  I had no ready reply for this and simply gazed in awe at the sheer scale, majesty, and potential of the place. It was a lot to get my head around and a huge project to quote for.

  On the east side of the house, we came to an intricate iron gate set in a high brick wall, which led to an enclosed and abandoned kitchen garden, complete with a Victorian-style greenhouse; most of the panes were cracked or missing.

  ‘I’d like everything reinstated; the glass house, the orchard, veg beds, fruit cages, herb garden...’ Sinclair said, glancing up at me.

  Nodding, I scribbled it down.

  Beyond the walled garden was a stretch of woodland; about an acre, Sinclair estimated, as he led me along a muddy path. Despite having worn a collared shirt and my smartest suit jacket over my jeans and boots, I felt distinctly low-class and shabby next to the well-groomed owner of the estate. But at least my footwear was appropriate for the occasion. Mud splattered my host’s expensive-looking shoes and soaked into the legs of his trousers, and I imagined his socks must be damp.

  ‘This woodland will need attention, along with everything else; I believe some of the trees used to be coppiced regularly, but you’re the expert; you’ll have to let me know.’

  I nodded as my eyes adjusted to the gloom and registered oak, beech, birch, hazel, hornbeam... mostly native, deciduous trees with the odd horse chestnut or sycamore thrown in for good measure. Set in a clearing was a roofless stone building clothed in ivy, and we stopped in front of its old wooden door.

  ‘I believe this is a grotto; a fernery dating back to some time soon after the house was built,’ Sinclair said. ‘I think it was commissioned by an eccentric uncle but I’ve never been inside. It’s completely overgrown and I was banned from playing in it as a child because it was considered too dangerous.’