delighted to meet you both. We’ll be four off-comers together. Simon is a property developer from Skipton and I was born in Moscow, would you believe?’
‘I’d never have guessed.’
‘Oh, I moved to England in my teens and I like to pretend I’m a native. Anyway, we’ve lived at the Hall for ten years and people are only now starting to believe that — oh, I don’t know, that Simon really isn’t about to concrete over Kentmere or build a shopping arcade or multi-storey car park in Longsleddale. That’s one thing you’ll soon discover, Daniel. They are a suspicious lot round here.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ he promised. ‘And thanks for the invitation. We’d love to come sometime.’
‘Let’s make a date now,’ she said. ‘Would Saturday evening be too soon?’
By the evening, as he lazed outside with Miranda and a glass of Sancerre, listening to the soft sounds in the trees and watching the fading amber of the sun colour the fell-side, he’d started having second thoughts about dining out at Brack Hall.
‘We could make an excuse. Remember, we did come up here to get away from it all.’
‘We ought to get to know our neighbours,’ she said, waving a cloud of midges from her face. ‘This is our home now. Besides, I’m intrigued. Last time I was in the shop, I overheard Mrs Tasker chatting about the Dumelows.’
‘Don’t tell me. She’s a trophy wife. He’s a rich businessman who’s away a lot.’
Miranda chortled. ‘Mrs Tasker, a trophy wife? She must be size eighteen at the very least.’
He feigned to cuff her ear. ‘I suppose she’s torn between a Brackdale native’s instinctive loathing of excessively rich off-comers and fervent gratitude for their continuing custom. It’ll take a long time for us to gain acceptance in a place like this.’
‘You’re telling me. I asked at the shop if there was a gym in the valley and Mrs Tasker looked at me as though I wanted to celebrate a black Mass. In the end, she admitted there were a few places. Apparently Tash works out at a fitness centre in Kendal.’
‘I suppose she’s bored out of her skull, that’s why she was so quick to invite us around.’
‘She paints watercolours, she gives time and money to good causes. Does her best to fit into the community. But her husband’s away a lot — a tenant farmer looks after the estate.’
‘So let’s hear the gossip. Tales of wild debauchery up at the Hall?’
‘No mention of orgies, sorry. You’ll have to make do with me. The Dumelows seem popular enough. Mrs Tasker said they’d agreed to sponsor an arts festival in the village hall and to throw their grounds open for charity in the summer. But she and her friend were badmouthing the farmer. He’s not popular, even though his family have lived in Brackdale for generations. Apparently, he has a vile temper, and last week he blacked his wife’s eye after a row. They were both wondering why she puts up with it.’
‘Probably the same reason women have put up with bullying for centuries. Lack of options.’
‘At least we don’t have to schmooze with him when we visit the Dumelows. Maybe I’ll wear my little black dress. Just as well I didn’t throw it out to make more room for Aran sweaters and dungarees. Mind you, I get the feeling that whatever I wear, I won’t be able to compete with the lady of the manor.’
He reached out for her. ‘You don’t need to compete with Tash Dumelow.’
As she leaned towards him, a loud shot cracked the silence, transfixing them both for a second until they realised that no one was shooting at them. The noise had come from the other side of the woodland.
‘Jesus,’ Miranda’s face was white. ‘Was that a rifle? Who would be shooting around here?’
‘A farmer,’ Daniel said. ‘Presumably the tenant of Brack Hall Farm. Hope he wasn’t aiming at his wife.’
‘You don’t think…?’
‘No, no.’ It hadn’t been a good joke; her hands were shaking. ‘Happens all the time in places like this. Farmers shooting vermin.’
She frowned. ‘You mean — foxes?’
A current of air stirred the trees, otherwise everything was quiet again. But the mood was shattered and Miranda picked up her glass and trudged back to the cottage. Daniel stayed outside, wondering about the fox. Dead, presumably. The farmer must be a skilled marksman. He’d only required a single shot.
Chapter Five
‘I thought I’d look up my father’s second wife this morning.’
Daniel was clearing the breakfast things while the Adonis with the unicorn tattoo and his colleagues competed in the hall to see whether an electric drill could drown out the noise of the hammering. He spoke casually, not wanting Miranda to guess how much this mattered to him, this attempt to make a connection with his old man, trying to figure out whatever had made him tick.
The previous evening she’d been tense and fidgety, even after dosing up with paracetamol because the shock of the rifle shot had given her a headache. A good night’s sleep was the best medicine. Now she was perched on a high stool, engrossed in a paperback about getting in touch with one’s inner self, learning how to tap into her spiritual chi and tune in to her seven chakras. It wasn’t entirely an indulgence: self-help manuals often sparked ideas for magazine articles; Miranda could do jokey as well as introspective, whatever was required. Editors loved pieces like ‘Men are from Margate, Women are from Venice’ or ‘Don’t Settle for the Small Stuff’. Half the time she wrote about how to get more done and pack one’s life with achievement, the other half about the work-life balance and techniques for cutting down on stress.
‘You’re going to see her right now?’ She put the book down. ‘What do you expect her to tell you?’
‘Not sure.’ He poured more coffee from the filter machine. ‘I suppose I want to fill in some of the gaps. Learn about what he was really like, find out what I missed. I was so young when he went away.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘It’s different, of course, but I never wanted…’
‘I know,’ he said as her voice faltered. Miranda was adopted, but she’d never attempted to trace her birth mother. She’d once said that she’d never come to terms with the idea of being given up. Her horror of rejection explained a lot. Why her ex-lover’s decision to stay married had hit her so hard, why she was so angry that Tamzin hadn’t hired her simply because of her literary gifts. ‘But what’s the worst that can happen?’
‘She might slam the door in your face.’
‘Fine, at least I’ll know where I stand. I don’t want to upset her. But I’d like to hear his side of the story.’
‘What makes you so sure she’d be willing to tell it?’ Miranda shook her head. ‘You know your trouble, Daniel? You’re too fair, you see two sides to every argument. What’s wrong with a bit of good old-fashioned one-eyed prejudice?’
He laughed. ‘I came across enough of that in Oxford to last a lifetime. Listen, if Cheryl doesn’t want to talk to me, that’s fine.’
‘Yes, but what if she talks and you hate what she has to say?’
The address he had for Cheryl — Cheryl Kind, as he ought to think of her, although he’d never associated her with his own name — was in Oxenholme. Spots of rain were smudging his windscreen as he arrived at his destination, a grey semi-detached at the end of a cul-de-sac crowded with sycamores. Painstakingly striped lawn, a bed of precisely spaced pink and white impatiens on either side of the front path, crisp floral curtains at the bay window. Disappointment stabbed him, although he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he’d expected a house with more character and found it hard to credit that that his father would have deserted his family for somewhere so utterly devoid of personality.
A ‘for sale’ sign stood next to the front wall. Presumably Cheryl was moving on. Understandable, after a bereavement. She must want somewhere easier to manage. A flat, maybe, although he reminded himself that she was much younger than his father. He’d conjured up unflattering mental images of her a thousand times, but he’d never even seen so much as a photograph of her. His sister reckoned that Cheryl was much younger than their father; she wouldn’t even be close to retirement age. Striding up to the door, he told himself to keep calm. This unknown woman had cast a shadow over his life, but his father had loved her, he had to remember that.
As he pressed the doorbell, someone called to him from next door. ‘You won’t find anybody in!’
