village. You could put up with a lot for that.’ He held out a long-fingered, capable-looking hand. ‘I’m Gabe Llewellyn. Mr Foster said you might be needing my services.’ His voice was deep and humorous and only slightly softened by a rural accent.
Rachel shook his hand warily. She was surprised to find it cool and dry and very firm. It was at odds with his grubby and sweaty-looking orange t-shirt. The name Llewellyn was familiar, though. ‘If I was expecting anyone, it would be a Mike Llewellyn.’ She was tired and it was an effort to speak. Wincing, she realised how rude she sounded.
Her tone didn’t seem to faze him. ‘That’s my Dad. He’s just finishing a job over Hereford way. Thought I’d come and take a quick look round, see what needs doing. Easier to see before you unpack your stuff.’ To her surprise, he seemed to pick up on her mood. ‘Sorry. Were you looking for a bit of peace and quiet? Long day when you’re moving, I reckon.’
Even though he was being surprisingly sensitive, Rachel couldn’t shift into politeness. ‘Yes it has been,’ she said stiffly. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Gabe.’ He suddenly looked defensive. ‘Short for Gabriel.’ When Rachel looked blank he explained further. ‘Mum had a bit of a Thomas Hardy thing going on, when she was pregnant. Just as well I was a boy. Would get a bit of stick down The Plough if I was called Bathsheba!’
Ridiculously, his knowledge of one of England’s greatest writers had the effect of reassuring Rachel. She relented – he probably wouldn’t take long after all. ‘I suppose you can come in,’ she said, aware that she still sounded churlish. Gabe looked at her hopefully. After a day spent with the removal men she knew the ropes. ‘I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’
His grin widened and his brown eyes crinkled attractively. ‘Sweet. If I don’t have a look now, don’t know when I’ll get round to it. Busy time. Been working all day.’ He gestured to the sky. ‘Been making the most of the weather.’
It explained his scruffy appearance. And the faint whiff of masculine sweat.
‘I’ll just get the truck; I left it at the bottom of the track out of the way of Dave Firmin’s blokes. Dave’s been known to run into things.’ Gabe laughed. ‘I’ll have a look at that old boiler first. Been empty a while, this place. Pressure will have gone, I bet. You’ll need to get some oil delivered as well. Got some in the truck, though, which might see you through for the time being.’
Oh God, another thing to think about, but if he got the boiler working she could have a hot bath tonight. The idea of a long bubble bath made Rachel smile with relief. Gabe grinned again. He held her eyes for a moment and then swung round and, with an easy stride, loped back down the track to get his truck.
Gabe proved to be both thorough and relentless in his inspection of the cottage; another surprise, she had expected him to be neither. Two hours later he had got the boiler going and had disappeared into the attic to have a look at the inside of the roof.
Rachel made them both yet more tea and then, leaving him to it, unearthed a sweater and took her drink to sit out on the front step. She seemed to have been drinking tea all day and was sick of it, but it was a comfort of a sort.
Gabe eventually joined her. She’d left him investigating some possible damp. He sat beside her companionably and began totting up the estimate of work on the back of a tatty envelope. ‘I’ll get Dad to give you a proper costing in a few days, but this’ll give you an idea.’ When he handed it over she blanched.
‘Tell you what,’ Gabe said, when he saw her expression, ‘Some things don’t need doing straight away.’
Again, he seemed to have a knack of tapping into what she was thinking. It made her curious about him and she wondered what had caused him to be so sensitive to people’s moods.
‘The roof’ll need fixing, though,’ he went on, ‘that corner’s been letting in water for a good while, I reckon. But you don’t need to do everything at once and it’ll give you a chance to pay for things gradually too.’ He shrugged. ‘Dad and I can’t do most of the work immediately anyway, we’re booked up, so it’ll give you a chance to think it over. Oh,’ he said, as an afterthought, ‘I found this.’ He reached around behind him and handed her a large tin. ‘Found it in the attic, tucked behind the water tank and covered with a wasps’ nest.’
Rachel took the box from him. Once upon a time it must have held biscuits; she could just make out the name Huntley and Palmer underneath the rust. ‘What is it?’
‘I didn’t look inside.’ He drained his mug and began to gather his pen, tape measure and tools together.
It was getting late and Rachel shivered. The evening spring light had fooled her into thinking it was much earlier. Perversely, now Gabe was about to go, she wanted him to stay around. Stranger that he was, she was afraid of having to face up to her responsibilities alone. Wrestling her thoughts away from an expensive new roof, she turned all her attention to the tin in her lap. She smoothed a hand over its side – it felt cool and rough and snagged at her soft fingertips. With a struggle, she wrenched the lid off, cutting her thumb on a sharp edge in the process. ‘Damn,’ she cursed. She always took special care of her hands; they were her precious commodity.
To her surprise, Gabe took her hand in his and examined the wound. ‘You want to clean that up. You can get some nasty infections from rusty old metal, take it from me.’
He bent over her thumb. ‘Doesn’t look too bad, but make sure you treat it as soon as you can.’
She could feel his breath warm on her wrist. He was very near and an urge to run her fingers through his silky hair overcame her. Disconcerted, she snatched her hand out of his and then regretted it. Blaming it on tiredness, she pulled herself together and moved fractionally away from him.
‘So, is there anything in the tin?’ he asked cheerfully, shoving his stuff into his work belt. ‘Jewellery? Gold? Or just spiders?’ He laughed.
Rachel shuddered. ‘Don’t joke, I’ve got a thing about spiders.’
‘Would you like me to have a look first? I don’t mind them.’
‘Thank you,’ she smiled, ‘that’s really kind of you but it’s okay.’ She peered inside, almost afraid of what she might find. Taking a deep breath and sucking her injured thumb, she gingerly lifted out a package. It was heavy and wrapped in some dull, greasy material. She unpeeled a corner and something fell out. A postcard. ‘I think it’s a book and papers of some sort, postcards and things. Old, though. This one’s dated 1965.’ She held it to the light and read out the message: ‘Weather delightful, food excellent. Hotel pictured on front. All my love, P.’ Rachel flipped the postcard over and laughed. ‘Oh, it’s Brighton sea front. It hasn’t changed much.’
‘Wouldn’t know, never been,’ Gabe said absently, but his interest had obviously been sparked. He peered over her shoulder. ‘Who’s it to?’
‘Mrs H. Lewis, Clematis Cottage.’ Rachel looked at Gabe. ‘Oh it’s to here! To someone who lived here!’
Gabe smiled at her delight. ‘Yes, suppose it would be. There was a woman who lived here once. Think she was called Mrs Lewis. Lived here for years.’ He smoothed a lock of hair behind his ears. ‘Looks like you’ve found some of her stuff.’ He peered over her shoulder. ‘It’s fascinating, isn’t it? What else is in there?’
Rachel removed the rest of the fabric, the
