with them. They trembled on unsteady legs, far too insubstantial to bear their weight. She leaned on the gate, entranced. Some of the cows spotted her and plodded over, their offspring doing a wobbling dance behind. One cow mooed ominously. Rachel backed away, suddenly very aware of their size and protective mothering instinct.
She moved on, wondering if Hetty had enjoyed walking the same lanes. It was no wonder the woman was lingering in such a beautiful place, even after death. Rachel felt even more sure Roger Foster’s words held true. It just didn’t feel right that Hetty would wish her harm. The vibes she got from the atmosphere that occasionally sprang up in the cottage were girlish, mischievous even. If Hetty wanted to stay in her old home, she supposed it was fine with her. As long as the ghost or spirit or essence, or whatever it was, didn’t mind sharing with a load of builders too.
The lane wound round in a long, slow loop and Rachel found herself back on the edge of the village coming up behind a rambling house, bearing a sign proclaiming ‘Michael Llewellyn and Son, Builders.’ She checked her watch; she’d been out longer than she thought and it was getting on for nine. Gabe had offered an open invitation to visit whenever she had time. Country people got up early, didn’t they? Perhaps it was time to test the theory.
It was a large and solid-looking house, painted white, with small-paned windows set at odd intervals across the walls. It looked as if bits had been added on over the years and wasn’t the smart, done-up building she had expected. From what Gabe had told her, the family never used the front door, so Rachel ignored it and made her way down a narrow, rutted drive to the side of the house. She squeezed past Gabe’s Toyota and a hatchback, feeling like an interloper. As she did so, a door in the house flew open and a middle-aged woman sprang out, a large bundle of letters pressed against her. She stopped and appraised Rachel, with a broad smile.
‘You must be Rachel, from old Hetty’s cottage. How do you do?’ The older woman held out her free hand and smiled. ‘Gabe and Mike have told me so much about you. It’s good to meet you at last.’
Rachel went shy. ‘Hello,’ she managed. She wondered exactly what had been said and how she had been recognised so immediately.
‘Sheila Llewellyn,’ the woman explained, although it was hardly necessary; the resemblance to her son was unmistakable. The same golden-brown hair, the same sherry- coloured eyes. ‘Now, I’m so sorry to dash off, but I must get these to the post and, if I don’t go now, I’ll miss it. Be back in a mo’, though, and I’ll get the kettle on. Mike’s out, but Gabriel’s in his shed if you want to go on through.’ Sheila nodded her head to the back of the house, raised her hand as a goodbye and hurried off.
Rachel stared after her for a second and then made her way further along the drive to the back of the house, following the sounds of a tool being applied to wood. Some pale- brown chickens scattered before her, scolding her for the intrusion. The outbuildings rambled on in an untidy way, but the door to the one nearest the house was open. She stepped over a ginger-and-white cat lazing fatly in the doorway and stopped short as she caught sight of Gabe.
He had paused in whatever he’d been doing and was instead staring intently at a large piece of wood held in a clamp. He had his back to her, so she couldn’t see his expression, but she had a feeling an important decision was being made.
He was dressed casually, as usual, in disreputable jeans and a ragged green t-shirt, with a logo now so faded it was indecipherable. Rachel enjoyed the view for a moment. Gabe’s back was strong and well muscled, but in the way created by physical labour rather than hours put in at a gym. He had long muscles, well defined but not huge and bunchy in an off-puttingly he-man way.
Her eyes were drawn to his arms. She always liked looking at them. Sinewy and tough, the bulge of his triceps was revealed under the fraying sleeve of his t-shirt. She longed to draw him like this.
Gabe picked up a chisel and lightly tapped it on the wood. There was some pop music playing on an old Bakelite radio wedged on a dusty shelf. Dust motes spun in the sunlit air and the place hummed with the smell of sawdust.
It was wonderful.
Gabe, still unaware of his audience, tucked a length of hair behind his ear and reached sideways, bending over as he did so. He ran a long, brown thumb along the length of the wood, feeling the grain. It was a tender caress, as if he was touching a woman in that first questioning contact before making love. It made Rachel go liquid inside. She wanted to call out but couldn’t speak. She refused to break the mood. And then, just as she was beginning to feel like a voyeur, the cat got up and, after stretching, wove its way between Gabe’s legs, making him jump.
‘Christ, Ned, you nearly gave me a heart attack.’ Gabe picked up the cat and turned to the door, scratching it under its ears. Then he saw Rachel.
‘Fuck!’
At the oath, the cat protested loudly and jumped out of Gabe’s arms, sliding past Rachel and making good its escape. Rachel wished she could follow.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Your mum said –’
Gabe crossed his arms, defensively. ‘It’s okay. You just gave me a bit of a fright. Didn’t hear you come in.’
‘No, the, erm, the music.’ Rachel gestured to the radio, from which still blared pop.
Gabe rubbed a hand over his face, leaving a sawdust trail. ‘No, it’s tiredness really. Been up most of the night on a job, trying to get it finished. Dad’s just gone over now to fit the last bit.’ He crossed the workshop to the radio and turned it off.
‘A job?’
‘Oh a kitchen. On the house we’ve been working on. Owner changed her mind at the last minute and then wanted it done by yesterday.’ Gabe shrugged and Rachel could see how weary the gesture was.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean –’ Now she really felt like an intruder.
‘No worries, it’s okay.’ Gabe appeared to be recovering himself. His shoulders relaxed. ‘I was just having a look at this.’ He ran a hand lightly over the piece of wood. ‘Can’t beat a bit of English oak and this is a beaut. Was just having a look to see what to do with it.’
Rachel’s curiosity piqued. ‘What do you mean? For part of a kitchen?’
Gabe grinned broadly, his eyes shining through his tiredness. ‘Wouldn’t waste it on something practical, not this.’ He leaned against the workbench, obviously amused. ‘Don’t you ever get that feeling with a blank piece of paper? When it speaks to you. Wants you to do something really special with it?’
Rachel did. Often. She was amazed that Gabe felt the same about a piece of timber. She nodded.
‘Well, it’s exactly the same here. Only better, because with wood there’s already something there. Pattern, grain, shape, colour. A suggestion of something inside waiting for you to release it.’
Rachel couldn’t speak. A whole new Gabriel was opening out to her.
‘Sometimes I look at wood and see a piece of furniture, you know a chair, table. Sometimes, though, it wants me to make something more, something less useful, more…’ he shrugged as he struggled for the right word.
‘More purely aesthetic?’ Rachel whispered.
Gabe grimaced. ‘If you say so. I have to stop and take a good look. See what I can make of it. See what it promises, what
