The ceilings are high in all the downstairs rooms at Shelseley, and two huge bookcases in the alcoves on either side of the fireplace took full advantage of the fact. Tris even had one of those short wheeled ladders so he could reach the ones at the top.
“What were you reading?” I asked, unwinding my scarf and dumping my helmet and gloves on the rattan sofa.
“W.H. Auden,” he said, eyes still roaming the shelves with the affection of any collector. “It was my father's. A first edition. He—”
Whatever else he was going to say was lost as the door burst open and three small boys came tussling into the room. They were bound up in some violent game of tag, the rules of which seemed to demand the forcible removal of a quantity of the taggee's hair.
Whatever, the two taggers had the smaller of the trio in a pretty effective headlock and were attempting to comply with enthusiasm. They danced further into the room, clanging off items of furniture as they went. Tris only reacted when they came perilously close to his collection of essential oils.
“Now, now lads,” he said nervously, trying to intercept them. “Calm it down a bit, hey?”
One of the taggers raised his head enough to give him a single stare that said clearly, “You have to be kidding.” Then they carried on with their game as if he hadn't spoken.
Tris jumped in front of his oils with his hands out, jigging from one foot to the other like the smallest school team goalkeeper, faced with the other side's biggest striker. Eventually, inevitably, the ball was going to come smashing into the back of the net. It was just a matter of time.
I sighed, moving over to the boys. It only took a moment to visually unravel them enough to identify the taggers. I dived into the scrimmage, and came out with a hard grip on the back of a pair of grubby necks.
The two boys wriggled briefly, then went limp in my hands like cats. The taggee took the opportunity to bolt, letting the door swing wide on his way out.
I bent down enough to be able to look straight into two sullen faces. They must have been about eight. “That's a great game you're playing,” I said conversationally. “Now go and play it somewhere else.”
I let go and watched them disappear rapidly into the hallway with the heavy footsteps of someone twice their size. It would have been too much to expect them to close the door behind them. Tris did it instead, taking a key out of his pocket and locking it firmly behind them.
“Thanks,” he said, relief in his voice. “I wish I could deal with them so easily.”
“They just need a firm hand,” I said. “Well, strong fingers, anyway.”
“I have to be so careful, you see,” he explained, anxiety underwritten by just a thread of annoyance. “With half this lot you only have to raise your voice and they threaten legal action.”
I briefly considered telling Tris he ought to call their bluff, but thought of Ailsa's reaction, and re-considered again.
He turned as I shrugged my way out of my jacket. “Now then, what have you been up to?” He looked at me properly, and frowned. “What happened to your face?”
“I lost an argument,” I said.
He looked about to push it further, but changed his mind. “Do I take it that's why you're here?” he said instead. I grimaced. “I've felt better,” I agreed.
He asked where the problem areas were, and I listed them. It would probably have been quicker to tell him which bits didn't hurt.
He nodded a couple of times, moved over to the shelves, and took down several of his little bottles without seeming to hesitate over the choice. It was strange to see the normally abstracted Tris so focused.
“I'll just go behind there and mix these up for you,” he said, indicating the old-fashioned concertina screen that stood in front of the bay window. “If you'd like to slip out of your things and lie face down on the couch. There are warm towels on the heater. Help yourself.”
In fact, the couch in the centre of the room was surrounded by four small free-standing electric radiators like a heated corral. I left my clothes draped over the arm of the sofa and struggled into a prone position as instructed.
Tris seemed to know when I was ready, and he popped out from behind the screen rubbing his hands together briskly to take the chill off them. He covered me in another couple of hot towels, then placed his hands quietly on my back for a few moments, rocking me gently.
I hadn't had a massage for years, but even so I could remember enough to tell that Tris had a real talent for it. After the first five minutes I felt my muscles begin to unlock themselves and I allowed myself to fully relax.
“I'm using frankincense for calming, and eucalyptus and rosemary for the aches and pains,” he said, sliding his hands long and slow up the nape of my neck and into my hairline.
He worked his way down my spine slowly, easing the loops out of my trapezius, sensitive to my nervous twitches when he went in too keenly. “You've got good muscle bulk,” he told me, “but you probably need to stretch more.”
He hesitated altogether when he reached the badly discoloured hip I'd landed on. “Are you sure you want me to work on this?” he asked.
I gritted my teeth. “Keep going. I'll let you know when I can't stand it any more.”
“Well, if you're sure,” he said doubtfully. I heard him lift another bottle down from the shelf and unscrew the lid. “I'll add in some lemongrass, then. It should help with the bruising.”
He started in, tentatively at first, while I bit back the odd groan. I searched my mind for a subject to take my mind off it. “Any more sign of your prowler?” I asked, almost on a gasp as Tris's fingers plunged unexpectedly deep into torn and knotted muscle.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “You really should have seen a doctor for this, Charlie.” When I remained stubbornly silent, he went on, “Anyway, no, we haven't had any more unexpected visits.”
“How's Nina?”
“She's still very upset,” he said, and I could hear the distress in his voice. “Hardly comes out of her room, poor kid. Ailsa's worried about her, but she's got a lot on her plate anyway at the moment,” he added. “Another of the girls has left, did you know?”
No, I didn't. I paused to catch my breath as he leant the heel of his hand into my gluteal muscles and put his weight behind it.
When I could speak again, I said, “What will she do if they all go?”
“I don't know,” Tris said. “I thought maybe we should start planning for the worst, though, you know? Look at the possibilities of changing direction a little. Ailsa did hypnotherapy when she trained as a counsellor, and I've done reflexology as well as aromatherapy.” I felt him shrug, before adding diffidently, as though wary of ridicule, “I thought we could maybe look at becoming a sort of holistic healing centre.”
He straightened up, pausing to squeeze more oil onto his hands. Tris used to have his oils in delicate little bowls, hand-painted in rainbow colours. They had been a wedding present from a glass-blowing friend, but the decoration had proved too glittering, and the glass too fragile, to stand up to a house full of other people’s careless, magpie children. Now he used a selection of lidded plastic bottles, like you’d find put out for ketchup in a cheap roadside cafe.
I considered the idea in silence for a few moments while he circled his thumbs down the back of my hamstring. Beyond trying the odd homeopathic cold remedy from one of the health food shops in town, I'd never given alternative medicine much thought. I certainly didn't know what sort of a local following it would generate. “What does Ailsa think?” I asked cautiously.
He sighed, “I haven't really talked to her much about it,” he admitted.
“Well, I suppose at least it would mean you could keep this place afloat,” I said. “Save you having to sell up.”
Tris's fingers stilled momentarily.
He ran his hands down my calf, and announced I was done. “I'll leave you to get dressed in your own time,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel. “Try not to bathe for a few hours. The oils will keep working as they're absorbed into your skin, but drink plenty of water.”
He unlocked the door and slipped out of the room quietly. I sat up, feeling strangely light-headed. But better.
