Czytaj książkę: «The Newcomer»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

The evening before Mamie Buchanan’s corpse was found had been an enjoyable one. Her niece, the Revd Angela Whitehorn, had thrown a gossipy dinner party for her new parish friends, where it was agreed that her aunt was the most entertaining newcomer Pendruggan had ever had.

This may have been due to her rackety stories and her genuine interest in the lives of others, or, more likely, it could have been her inability to pour anything less than very large measures of alcohol.

‘Your aunt is an admirable woman,’ said a squiffy Geoffrey Tipton, the last guest to say his goodbyes on the chilly, moonlit doorstep of Pendruggan vicarage. ‘My God, they don’t make women like that any more.’

Angela nodded in agreement. ‘They certainly don’t.’

‘GEOFFREY!’ The voice of Mrs Tipton came from beyond the gate, making both Angela and Geoffrey jump. He turned giddily. ‘Yes, my love. Just coming.’ He steadied himself with a gnarled hand on the doorframe. ‘Was thanking the vicar for a splendid party.’

‘You can do that in a letter. COME,’ commanded Audrey. She may as well have asked him to heel.

Geoffrey pushed himself from the doorframe and gave Angela a wobbly wave before staggering towards his wife.

Angela gratefully closed the door and walked to the kitchen where Mamie, the belle of the ball, was gaily polishing off a bottle of champagne.

‘Good God,’ she said theatrically, ‘I thought they’d never leave. Last glass before bed?’ She pointed the bottle towards Angela.

Angela shook her head and started to load the dishwasher. ‘I’ve already had too much.’ Over her shoulder she said, ‘You know Mike Bates is in love with you, don’t you?’

Mamie sank her glass in one. ‘Yes. He told me. And who can blame him, darling!’ Her eyes twinkled with laughter. ‘I’m very fond of him.’

Robert Whitehorn, Angela’s husband, entered with the last of the pudding plates balanced in his hands. ‘Mamie, you were outrageous. You mercilessly flirted with the dreadful Tipton man.’

Mamie became her usual heartless self again and leant out of her kitchen chair to drop her empty bottle into the recycling crate by the back door. ‘Me?’ she laughed. ‘Poor dear Geoff. A frightful old bore but such a sweetheart. That gorgon of a wife of his is hard work.’ Mamie looked to the ceiling and raised her immaculate eyebrows.

Angela, taking the plates Robert was offering, gave her aunt a fond but exasperated look. ‘You are a heartbreaker and you got everyone drunk.’

‘And there was I thinking I was brightening the dull and unsullied lives of your flock,’ Mamie smiled impishly.

Angela’s tired grin shifted into a yawn.

‘And you are exhausted,’ Mamie said kindly. ‘You two go up to bed and I’ll clear the last bits up.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Robert.

Mamie picked up a tea towel and flapped it at the pair of them. ‘You’ve got early church tomorrow. I can lie in.’ She kissed her niece and nephew-in-law affectionately. ‘Off you go. Bed. Now.’

‘Where does she get her energy from?’ Robert plumped the pillow under his head, his eyes already closing.

‘She’s always been the same.’ Angela lifted her legs onto her side of the mattress and pulled the duvet up. ‘Always.’

It was Angela who found Mamie’s body. She had woken at 3.20 with a post-alcohol thirst that needed at least a pint of water. In the dark, she had padded, barefoot and silent, to the top of the stairs and noted a line of light under her aunt’s bedroom door. She thought vaguely that Mamie was probably engaged in her usual nightly routine of make-up removal and meditation, so she decided not to disturb her.

Her fingers carefully held the smoothly worn stair rail as she counted the sixteen treads down to the hallway. She and Robert had been in the vicarage only six months but Angela knew by now most of its foibles and peculiarities: the sticky window in her office, the back door that needed an encouraging kick after rain, and the creaking third and fifth treads.

At this hour all was still and silent. The now-familiar warmth of the house wrapped itself around her.

The smell of garlic roast lamb and sherry still hung in the air, and something else. She stopped for a moment and sniffed. Ah, yes. Mamie’s perfume. Shalimar. Angela was surprised that it could override even last night’s cooking smells, but there it was. The very essence of her aunt.

She reached the bottom step and her naked toes felt the familiar texture of the Indian rug covering the oak floor of the hall.

Confidently, she let go of the wooden sphere on the end of the newel post, and turned left in the darkness, heading towards the kitchen.

It was then that her foot felt something unusual.

Soft.

Fleshy.

Her skin began to prickle.

‘Mr Worthington? Is that you, boy?’ She knew it wasn’t the dog.

She stood stock-still and held her breath. But there was no answering thump of a wagging tail or whiskery nose sniffing her leg.

Fear crawled from her stomach, through her bowels and down her legs. She began to shake.

She was breathing faster and recognised panic. What should she do? Scared to progress further and tread on anything else that might be lying in the dark, but knowing she had to, she reached her foot forwards, feeling for anything else.

What was that?

She drew her foot back quickly.

‘Oh dear Lord,’ she whispered, and took two quick hops to where she hoped the light switch was.

In the sudden glaring light, she saw her beloved aunt’s body.

‘Robert! Robert!’

Robert was dreaming of Venice, sitting in the sun, under the shade of a bougainvillaea and having lunch alone, watching the beautiful women walk by. Where was Angela? He couldn’t remember why she wasn’t with him, but never mind. He could sit here without guilt. Of course Angela would be very cross if she caught him but it was innocent fun. Then he heard her. Upset. Angry? Her voice was coming in distressing sobs.

‘Robert, oh dear God. Robert! Robert. Robert.’

The vision faded and he sat up in bed, ready to apologise. It had only been lunch. Nothing more. Angela would understand. But Angela’s side of the bed was empty. He ran his hands through his thick, dark hair and heard her shout again, ‘Robert, it’s Auntie Mamie, she’s fallen.’

A dose of adrenaline hit him and he leapt out of bed. Six foot two, muscular and naked, he sped onto the landing and looked over the banisters. His wife had one hand to her mouth while the other clutched her nightdress to her heart. He saw the body on the rug. Twisted awkwardly. Her eyes half open. A bruise spreading on her temple. He knew she was dead.

He took the stairs two at a time. Stepping round the grim scene, he reached Angela and pulled her to his strong, naked chest.

‘Darling. Don’t look. Make some tea. I’ll call the police.’

‘She needs an ambulance.’ Angela pushed her way out of Robert’s arms. She stepped carefully over Mamie’s feet and went to the phone on the hall table. ‘Check her breathing, Robert, and fetch a blanket. She’ll get cold.’

Robert dashed for the blanket from the back of the sofa, then knelt and checked Mamie’s pulse. Nothing. He bent his ear to her nose. She wasn’t breathing.

‘Ambulance, please.’ Angela’s voice broke as the emergency operator asked for details.

Robert placed Mamie’s lifeless arm gently on her chest and stood up. ‘Darling, we need the police as well. I’m so sorry. She’s gone.’

Angela took the receiver from her ear and looked at Mamie, lying in her scarlet silk pyjamas, and her legs gave way.

Robert took the phone and gave the emergency operator their address and an assessment of what had happened. He put his hand fondly against Mamie’s cool cheek, before pulling the blanket snugly over her as though she was sleeping.

Finally, he collected Angela’s small frame in his arms and carried her to the kitchen. Tenderly he lowered her onto her chair by the Aga.

‘I’ll make tea. The police and ambulance will be here soon.’

‘Mamie,’ keened Angela, her head in her hands. ‘I didn’t hear her fall, Robert. I should have heard her. Why didn’t I hear her?’

‘Darling, it’s an accident. Somehow she tripped on the stairs and fell. I don’t think she would have known anything about it.’ He smiled into Angela’s green eyes. ‘In a funny sort of way, isn’t this so typically her? Exactly the way she would have liked to have gone? After a great party where everyone loved her … and full of gin.’

1

Six months earlier

‘Penny?’ Simon Canter shouted from the bottom of the vicarage stairs, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, a sheen of sweat on his brow.

‘Penny.’ He shouted a little louder.

He had been emptying and clearing his office for the last three hours and it had not put him in the happiest of moods. ‘Penny!’

‘What?’ Her voice from upstairs was irritated. ‘I’m sorting the bloody books in Jenna’s room.’

‘Where are the bin liners?’

‘Under the sink, where they usually are.’

‘I’ve looked and they are not.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ she muttered to herself, then shouted, more loudly, ‘Have you looked in the box by the back door?’

‘No.’

‘Well, look!’

Penny was not quite as busy as she was pretending. In truth she had been lying on her daughter’s bed for most of the morning, surrounded by packing cases and constantly being distracted by long-forgotten possessions. She had been flicking through her own old copy of Noel Streatfeild’s Ballet Shoes. She had won it at her boarding school. Her headmistress’s inscription still gave her a tiny thrill of pride.

Awarded to Penelope Leighton

For continued improvement in English Literature.

Congratulations

Miss Elsie Bird

Penny had had a difficult childhood. Her father had died when she was young and later she had discovered the woman she had been told was her mother was not. It had destroyed her sense of self-worth and left her with a need for praise and approval wherever she could find it. Even now, reading Miss Bird’s dedication to her more than thirty years later, she felt the pleasure of having done well.

It wasn’t until she’d met Simon, in her early forties, that she’d found the wonder of loving and being loved in return. And she, a woman who worked in the febrile, emotionally incontinent, ego-driven world of television, had found all that in a vicar! Now Simon shouted again from downstairs, ‘They are not there!’

‘What aren’t where?’

‘The bin liners.’

Penny huffily put the book down and went to go downstairs and find the bloody bin bags herself when she spotted them. They were where she had put them, at the top of the stairs.

‘Oh, here they are,’ she called cheerfully, covering her guilt.

Simon was grumping up the stairs.

‘Sorry, darling,’ she said with a hint of accusation as she met him midway. ‘Someone must have left them upstairs.’

Simon looked tired. His normally clear, tanned face and chocolate eyes were dulled with worry. ‘We have less than a week.’

She stroked his balding head and kissed his brow. ‘I know. We’ll be ready. I promise.’

‘I’ve still got the garage to tackle. What am I going to do with all those tins of old paint?’

Penny placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘The new people might want them to touch up any scuffs.’ She wiped a string of cobweb from his eyebrow. ‘I think you need some elevenses. Everything will look better after a coffee and a digestive or two. Come on.’ Taking his hand, she pulled him towards the kitchen.

Outside early spring was dawning on the little patio that Simon had built last summer, with the help of the village gardener, known to all as Simple Tony. The flagstones were warming and a robin was busily building a nest in the early clematis that clambered around the kitchen window.

Penny carried the coffee tray outside and balanced it on top of the lichened birdbath. Pulling up two tatty wicker chairs, she took the edge of her cardigan and swept away the dried winter leaves and crumbly bird poo from the seats.

Setting the chairs side by side, she plonked herself down with a sigh as Simon followed her out with a packet of ginger nuts.

Penny pulled her shoulders back and tipped her face to the sun. ‘The sea smells good today.’ She inhaled noisily, filling her lungs.

Simon sat down and opened the biscuits. ‘Ginger nut?’

She exhaled, shaking her head. ‘I’d prefer a digestive.’

‘There aren’t any.’

She looked at Simon, weighing up whether it was worth the risk of contradicting him by getting up and getting the digestives from the larder where she had put them, or just saying nothing. She chose the latter.

‘Not to worry,’ she said, and took another lungful of air with closed eyes.

Simon fiddled with the ginger nut wrapper, running his thumb around to find the elusive tape to pull and, while he did so, looked around at his beloved garden, recalling all the hours that he and Penny had poured into it.

The cherry blossom tree marking Jenna’s baptism.

The Wendy house under it.

The drift of daffodils, just budding now, planted several autumns before.

Eventually he found the Cellophane string and pulled.

Six ginger nuts sprang out and hit the ground.

Penny opened one eye. ‘Bugger,’ she said.

He sighed. ‘Are we doing the right thing?’ He picked up a biscuit and shook the grit off before dipping it in his coffee.

Penny exhaled impatiently. ‘Yes!’

‘It’s Jenna I worry about most,’ Simon said, looking at the vegetable patch that he really ought to have dug over by now. ‘Taking her away from this. Her home. Her garden. Her friends. The life she has known.’

Penny abandoned her deep breathing and gave him a sharp look. ‘How many times are we going to go over this?’ She snatched up a ginger nut before the beady-eyed, nest-building robin got it, and bit into it noisily. ‘We are going to Brazil,’ she said. ‘It’s your dream and we’re going to go for it!’

He ran his hand over his head. ‘Am I being selfish? What about you and your work?’

Before he could take another bleat, Penny was on him. ‘Stop being so sodding negative. I do believe Brazil has running water and electricity and phone lines and the internet! I can run my office from there easily. In fact, it may be better than being here. And Jenna is seven going on twenty-one and bursting for an adventure.’

‘She takes after you.’ Simon gloomily drank his coffee.

Penny sat up and looked him square in the eye. ‘Do you know what she told me last night?’

‘No.’

‘She told me that her friends at school were collecting things for the children you will be working with.’

‘What things?’

‘Hairbands, football shirts, pens, notepads, balls, make-up. Stuff that street kids have never had. She’s even set up a website with her form teacher, Miss Lumley, so that she can keep them up to date with her blogging and vlogging.’

‘Really?’ Simon’s eyes were shining with emotion.

‘Yes, but keep it under your hat and act surprised because I wasn’t supposed to tell you.’

He turned his gaze back to the garden and Jenna’s cherry tree. ‘It is going to be all right, isn’t it?’

‘It’s going to be bloody amazing!’ Penny stretched out to take his hand. ‘I know I’m not always the greatest vicar’s wife in the world, but the important thing is that I am your wife and the only one you have. Even the bishop has started to afford me some respect. He managed to look me in the eye rather than my cleavage last time I saw him … a huge step for mankind.’

‘He doesn’t understand strong successful women.’

‘Well, he’s going to have to. There are a hell of a lot of us about.’

‘Supposing the accommodation is even more basic than we’ve been led to believe? You might hate it.’

‘You forget I have spent most of my working life on film locations with a chemical toilet and cold showers. I never get the luxury Winnebago, believe me. Brazil will be sunny, hot, sexy, all the things that you and I could do with.’ She smiled at him. ‘It’s going to be fun.’

He smiled at her wearily. ‘Dear God, I hope so.’

Somewhere in the house the phone began to ring. ‘Ah, that’ll be God now, telling you to buck up,’ said Penny. ‘I shall say you’re out.’

Penny headed for the phone in the hall, dodging round a pile of boots and coats ready for the charity shop, and reached for the receiver.

‘Holy Trinity Church, Pendruggan. Good morning.’

‘Penny, is that you?’ asked the querulous voice of the bishop. ‘You were a long time answering.’

‘Maybe because we still have the old-fashioned telephone plugged into the wall.’

‘You must ask my office to sort you out a modern cordless one.’

Penny gritted her teeth. ‘Yes. We were turned down.’

‘Have I caught you in the middle of something?’

‘Not at all. We are only packing our lives up for Brazil.’

‘Of course. Brazil. Simon will be marvellous. He’s exactly the sort of man for the job. I must say when I did my ministry in Sudan, many moons ago now …’

Penny closed her eyes, preparing to hear another of the pompous old fart’s dreary tales of self-aggrandisement.

‘The Sudan!’ she said. ‘How … interesting.’

‘Oh my word, it certainly was. The people took to me immediately and the more I worked with them in their villages, taking the good news of the gospels with me, the more they truly loved me. I remember a day when a young woman with a small child on her back came to me and asked, in all humility, “Are you Jesus?”’

‘Well I never,’ said Penny, rolling her eyes at her husband, who was stepping over the coats and coming towards her. ‘How charming! You must tell Simon. He’s right here.’

‘Who is it?’ mouthed Simon.

‘God,’ she mouthed back.

Simon took the receiver from her and shooed her away. ‘William. How kind of you to call.’

Penny collected her coffee from the garden, tucking a couple of ginger nuts into her cardigan pocket, and returned to Jenna’s room. She was faced again with the scattered detritus of moving her life halfway across the world. There had been tears and fierce negotiations about what could go to Brazil and what would have to stay behind and go into storage.

‘But, Mumma, Blue Ted won’t be able to breathe in a crate.’

‘Oh yes he will. Teddies like to hibernate and it’ll be a big adventure for him to be in the big warehouse with lots of other people’s teddies.’

‘No it won’t.’

‘Yes it will.’

‘But he’ll miss me.’

‘Well,’ Penny had thought on her feet, ‘we shall send him postcards.’

‘He can’t read without me.’

‘So you’ll have lots of fun reading them to him when we get back.’

At which point Jenna had burst into tears and thrown herself on the bed with Blue Ted beneath her.

It had finally been agreed that Blue Ted and Honey Bear and Tiny Tiger could all go to Brazil in her flight bag, but the Lego, stilts and dolls’ house had to go into store.

Standing now in her daughter’s denuded room, Penny knew she only had a few hours to make these last books, games and teddies ‘disappear’ into storage before Jenna returned home from school.

As she worked, her mind picked at the anxiety she felt about leaving Pendruggan. No matter what she had told Simon, the move to Brazil was not going to be easy. She was a woman who liked to be in control of her environment. She needed her work, her hairdresser, the theatre, shops, and her independence. In Brazil she would have none of these safe anchors. She had to admit to herself that she would find it hard.

Simon, by comparison, would be in his element. He had been handpicked to join the missionary team in Bahia, to help the abandoned children who lived on the streets. Some were just babies, cared for by other children. They were exploited in every way imaginable. The Mission gave them shelter, teaching and food. Penny knew that Simon would plunge straight in and immerse himself totally in the work that he was made for, but she privately wondered how she would cope.

When Jenna had first been told about going, she had cried and run to her bedroom. Mortified, Simon and Penny had followed her, expecting a tantrum and refusal to go, but instead they found her gathering her teddies and telling them that they were needed in Brazil. They watched with awe and pride as she lined them up and told them, ‘I love you all, you know that, but there are lots of children who don’t have a special teddy or a mummy and daddy, so you are coming with me and I shall let you play with the Brazil girls and boys. But not you, Blue Ted. All right? Mummy says Daddy is going to be very important in a Missionary Position.’

Penny smiled at the memory.

And now Brazil was only a week away.

The essentials for their new life were already crated and stowed on the deck of a container ship, crossing the Atlantic.

Penny looked for the big roll of parcel tape and placed the last two of Jenna’s belongings – a magic set and a radio-controlled puppy – into the final box, sticking it down securely.

‘Right, you lot,’ she said, straightening up. ‘It’s only for a year. Twelve little months and we’ll have you out of storage and back here before you know it.’ She looked around the familiar room. ‘And you four walls, you are going to be home to the new family. Look after them, but don’t forget us.’

A woman’s voice called up the stairs, ‘Hello-o! Anyone fancy a sandwich?’

Penny went to the landing and looked over the banisters to see the auburn hair and freckly face of her best friend, Helen.

‘You are an angel. What you got?’

Helen beamed up at her and swung a Marks and Spencer bag. ‘Prawn salad, cheese and pickle or cream cheese and cucumber.’

‘Crisps?’

‘Salt and vinegar.’

Later, the kitchen table strewn with the remains of the ad hoc lunch and glasses of squash, Simon dusted the crumbs from his fleece and stood up.

‘Thank you, Helen. Would you think me rude if I whizzed off to the tip? I’ve got the car loaded and I want to empty it before I pick Jenna up from school.’

‘Go for it,’ Helen approved.

Penny chipped in, ‘There’s a pile of bin liners full of rubbish at the bottom of the stairs, if you can fit them in.’

He dropped a kiss onto the top of her head. ‘No problem. See you later.’

Penny patted his bum as he went by her. ‘Jenna loves it when you pick her up.’

Once Penny and Helen were alone, Helen leant across the table and put her hand over her friend’s. ‘How are you feeling? Really?’

Penny slumped her head onto the table. ‘Exhausted. Anxious. Homesick already.’

‘I’d be the same.’

Penny lifted her head. ‘Would you? I’ve tried so hard to keep upbeat for Simon because this is so important to him.’

‘Tell me what you’re worried about.’

‘Jenna getting ill and no decent hospital to look after her. Insects in the house. Snakes. Lizards. Robbers. Earthquakes.’

Helen began to smile. ‘So, not much then.’

‘And worst of all, I’m going to miss you.’ Penny gripped Helen’s hand. ‘What is a woman without her best friend? The woman who knows all her secrets. Who’s going to make me laugh, bring sandwiches, wine and gossip?’

‘How do you think I’ll feel without you?’ countered Helen. ‘Who am I going to complain about Piran to?’

Penny sniffed and wiped her eyes. ‘You’ll just have to strangle him.’

‘You’re right.’ Helen sighed. ‘Easier than divorce.’

‘You’re not married,’ said Penny.

‘Oh, yeah. Well, I could walk out on him.’

‘But you don’t even live together,’ Penny smiled.

‘Thank God!’ Helen laughed.

Penny stood and went to the fridge. ‘I’ve got half a bottle of rosé that needs drinking. Fancy a drop?’

‘Is my name Helen Merrifield?’

Penny took two glasses from a cupboard and poured equal measures of wine into them.

‘To me,’ she said, raising her glass.

‘To you,’ replied Helen. She took a mouthful. ‘I wonder if the new vicar drinks?’

‘Probably not. She looks a bit mousy. No, that’s unfair. Shall we say, natural. No make-up. Very petite. I think she might be one of those women who run for fun.’

‘But her husband is a dish.’

‘Did I tell you that?’

‘Several times.’

‘Well, he is. When we met them at Bishop William’s, I couldn’t believe how handsome he was. Think Cary Grant with a drop of George Clooney.’

‘I am.’

‘And he’s nice. Charming. Very attentive to Angela.’

‘What does he do?’

‘I think he said he was a political writer. To be honest, I was so busy looking at him that I forgot to listen to what he was saying. I’m expecting you to get all the lowdown and Skype me with every detail.’

‘What about the daughter?’

‘I didn’t meet her. But I think she’s around fourteen or fifteen. Something like that. Probably at the fat and spotty stage.’

Helen gave Penny a knowing look. ‘You’re feeling better. I can always tell. Your inner bitch comes out.’

As they laughed together as only old friends can, a wave of homesickness overwhelmed Penny.

‘Oh, I do hope we’ll be OK, and that they will be happy here – this house, this village … well, I couldn’t have been happier here and–’

Helen interrupted her before she could get into a panic. ‘You’ll be home before you know it. What could possibly go wrong in a vicarage?’

And with knowing smiles, they settled in for a good old gossip.

‘Don’t use the sitting room,’ Penny yelled four days later as Simon put his hand to the door handle.

He blinked. ‘I only want to watch the news.’

‘You’ll have to watch it on the little telly in the kitchen.’ She steered him away. ‘Also, no using the downstairs loo, or either of the spare bedrooms or your office.’

‘But I need my office.’

‘Out of bounds, I’m afraid,’ said Penny, pushing him towards the kitchen. ‘Helen and I scrubbed this house from top to bottom. Forensics would never know we lived here.’

‘This is slightly ridiculous. Angela and Robert don’t arrive until the day after tomorrow,’ Simon said, exasperated.

Penny shrugged. ‘Them’s the rules, I’m afraid. And tonight’s supper is fish and chips from the chip shop because I’ve cleaned the Aga. And tomorrow night, Helen and Piran are cooking for us. Our last supper.’

Simon took Penny in his arms and squeezed her. ‘I haven’t said thank you, have I?’

Penny tipped her head up to look at her husband. ‘What for?’

‘For doing all this for me.’ His chocolate eyes behind their glasses took in her deep blue ones. ‘For taking on this huge upheaval and not complaining once.’

‘Haven’t I? I’m sure I have.’

‘Shut up. Just, thank you.’

‘My pleasure.’ She reached up and kissed him. ‘Now go and get the fish and chips.’

The following evening, Simon, Penny and Jenna trooped across the village green to Helen’s little cottage. Gull’s Cry was as welcoming as always, sitting in its beautiful garden, the path lined with lavender from gate to front door. Wisteria was starting to break into flower around the eaves and, as ever, a fat candle sitting in a bell jar shone in each of the two downstairs windows. The thick front door with its heavy metal dolphin knocker opened before they got to it and a small Jack Russell bounded out to greet them.