vendor on their first family holiday in France.
‘I really have no idea why my mother kept that horrible painting.’ The comment held a hint of apology.
Glancing at the watercolour, the estate agent was forced to agree. It was dreadful, but he thought better than to pursue the subject so he changed it.
‘Fallowfields is typical of most houses built in this area during the twenties. Red brick, and timber façade, three to four beds, a couple of acres. Three reception rooms, substantial kitchen, inglenook fireplace. A good solid family house.’
This was delivered in estate-agent speak. If he had been completely honest, which he wasn’t because it didn’t come with the job, he would’ve said that he found the mock Tudor architecture extremely ugly, the rooms dark and pokey, and decorated with morgue-like taste. The owner had obviously hated colour; one shade of dull brown was mixed with another shade of duller brown.
As if reading his mind, Kathryn announced with emotion, ‘I hate this house.’
This statement appeared to surprise the estate agent. ‘I must admit it’s not exactly to my taste either; I’m more of a period sort of chap myself, if you know what I mean.’
Kathryn was scanning the room, gazing on the Spartan effects, and shabby decor, with obvious distaste. ‘I’ve taken a few personal items, the rest of the furniture you can sell.’
She saw that his eyes had followed hers and settled on a photograph of her mother taken when Freda had first come to England, a distinct look of uncertainty on her unsmiling face. ‘My mother was German you know,’ Kathryn provided.
‘Uh huh,’ Oliver nodded slowly, his face adopting a ‘Well, that answers everything’ sort of look. His glasses slipped an inch down his nose, he pushed them firmly back into place before saying, ‘I heard about your mother’s tragic car crash. Nasty business. I’m sorry.’
Her eyes did not waver from Freda’s photograph when she said, matter-of-fact, ‘My mother died a long time ago, so don’t be.’
A short nervous cough covered the estate agent’s embarrassment. He averted his gaze.
‘Come along, Mr Grant, we’re not finished yet,’ she said in a brighter voice.
Following her out of the living room, he trudged up a narrow staircase. He fixed his eyes on the smooth orb of her left buttock; it was the closest one to him, the panty line clearly visible beneath her tight denim jeans. He wondered if she wore lacy, see-through panties – the type he ogled in magazines. By the time they had reached the top of the stairs he was contemplating asking Kathryn if she was busy next Saturday. It was the annual dinner dance at his cricket club. Oliver was certain she would enjoy it, he always did.
Kathryn inclined her head towards an open door directly in front of them. ‘That’s the master bedroom, not very apt in this case, since there hasn’t been a master in there for a very long time.’ Having said this, she left him to measure up, before stepping alone into the room next door.
This bedroom looked exactly the same as the day she had left home. There was a crack in the face of the old Dohrmann alarm clock, one of the few remaining possessions her mother had brought with her from Germany. And the rosebud-pink patterned wallpaper which Kathryn had always hated had started to peel around a damp patch above the bed. But otherwise nothing had changed, and she was reminded of another time, long ago, but not forgotten.
Kathryn squeezed her eyes tightly shut as the demons, for ever hovering on the edge of her consciousness, began to invade. A shutter in her memory clicked, and Richard de Moubray’s face appeared. Not for the first time Kathryn thought how strange it was that every time she visualized her father, she saw only his face, never his body; he always looked sad, and the image was always in black and white. Even after almost twenty-five years, however much she tried to imagine him looking happy and at ease, he always wore the same expression he had worn the day he had left home.
‘I love you very much, Kathryn, but I won’t be living with you any longer. I’m leaving to live with someone else; you will be staying with Mummy, but we’ll see each other often, and I promise you will still be my little princess.’
It was the last time he ever called her his ‘little princess’, and after that day she had not seen him for exactly eight months, five days, six hours and twenty-four minutes. She knew; she had ticked the days off her calendar when she was nine years old.
Kathryn had lost count of the times she had stood in exactly the same spot, running and rerunning the little scene in her head, certain that it must have been something she had said, or done, that had made her daddy leave.
Slowly her eyes opened and she blinked to clear the thin film of moisture blurring her vision. Each season viewed from this bedroom window had brought with it vivid memories, painful in their clarity. With tinkling childish laughter pealing in her ears, she recalled her seventh birthday.
Her father walking towards her, carrying something … He is smiling, the special smile, the one he has for her, and her alone. She is running across the lawn, long blonde hair streaming from her upturned face, rapt in childish wonderment; her screams of delight mingle with the playful yelps of her birthday present – a golden Labrador puppy.
Shaking her head to disperse the memory, Kathryn stepped back from the window to sit on the edge of her old bed. With the flat of her hand, she stroked the quilted counterpane, her fingers lovingly resting on a small scatter cushion propped up against the pine headboard. She traced the border of an embroidered primrose; it was lopsided and the bright yellow petals had faded to a dull cream. A hint of a smile flickered across her face as she cast her mind back to the kindly Mrs Crowther, her needlework teacher, who had helped her with the embroidery. A painstaking task for a twelve-year-old who was neither patient nor a natural needlewoman.
Brimming with pride, she had brought the finished article home from school to sit on her bed next to Rumple, the one-eyed teddy she’d had for as long as she could remember. The smile slipped from her face as, with a pang, Kathryn recalled her shock on finding Rumple gone, and her stinging indignation towards her mother for having thrown her beloved companion away. It was as if her childhood had departed with Rumple, he who had shared her dreams, been party to her innermost secrets, and comforted her when her heart ached.
Oliver Grant’s voice cut sharply through her reverie.
‘I’ll send a photographer over tomorrow, so by early next week, we’ll have all the details ready to send out.’
Standing up, Kathryn said, ‘The sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.’ She was suddenly seized with the familiar urge to get out of Fallowfields. The house had always been oppressive, but for some reason without her mother it was worse.
Following Kathryn downstairs, after taking the dimensions of her old bedroom, Oliver’s gaze roamed up and down the back of her legs, coming to rest once more on her backside. He fantasized about her bending over his bed wearing nothing but a black G-string. He blushed a little as he felt his erection rise and with his briefcase in front of his groin, he stopped at the front door.
‘Well, I think that just about wraps it up for now,’ he said. ‘I have a meeting with the surveyor tomorrow, and I also intend to do a full inventory of the contents. It’s amazing what turns up hidden away in attics and cellars; sometimes old people die and leave a fortune in antiques – actually only a couple of weeks ago …’
The estate agent looked animated
