The Wishing Well Read online

  Laura looked down at her soaking jacket in shock and turned to her father in bewilderment.

  “It’s Laura,” he said loudly to his wife. “Our daughter.”

  But Pat wasn’t to be calmed and again reached out, her hand scrabbling around, as if she was looking for something else to throw.

  Laura stepped back into the hall and whispered urgently, “What am I doing wrong?”

  “Nothing, love. She sometimes takes against strangers.”

  “But I’m not a stranger.”

  “You are to her now. She’s having one of her bad days, I’m afraid.” While he spoke, he patted his wife’s shoulder as if she were an upset child.

  Angie went into the kitchen. “I’ve come to visit you too, Gran.” She gave the older woman a hug and Pat seemed to forget Laura, smiling and raising one hand to caress her grand-daughter’s hair.

  For a moment she seemed almost her own self, her eyes lighting with affection, then the light faded and she sagged down in her chair again.

  Angie immediately stepped away from her. “Shall I make some more tea, Pop?”

  “Yes, love.” He moved across to Laura. “I’ll help you upstairs with your things, shall I, love?”

  He took the suitcase and went up the stairs, clearly finding it heavy, but she knew better than to offer to take it from him. Her dad had always had strong views about men doing the physical jobs for women and it was too late to change him now.

  He pushed open the second bedroom door and wheeled the case in, panting a little and trying to hide that. “You’re in your old room. Same bed, I’m afraid. I hope it’ll be all right.”

  “I’m tired enough to sleep on a log.” She could barely hold back a yawn.

  “Why don’t you have a shower and go to bed, then?”

  “When I’ve just arrived?”

  He shrugged. “Your mum won’t notice and I’ll understand.” His mouth wobbled and he said in a husky voice, “I should have rung you about her sooner, only she started going downhill faster than anyone expected.”

  “It must be hell for you.” She watched him studying his shoes, something he’d always done when he didn’t want to look you in the face. He glanced up at her and teardrops leaked out of the corners of his eyes, zigzagging down the wrinkles. “Oh, Dad!” She moved to take him in her arms, cradling him against her, amazed at how shrunken he felt, without any spare flesh on his bones.

  He wept silently, trying desperately to hold back the grief and failing. She wept with him, for him and for her poor mother - for herself too, because she felt so lost.

  After a while, the convulsive sobs stopped and he looked at her shamefacedly. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” She fumbled in her pocket for some tissues and came out with two crumpled pieces of white, offering the better one to him. “It’s supposed to be good for you to cry and heaven knows you’ve got enough to cry about.”

  “Life’s not been treating you so well lately, either.”

  “No. I’ll tell you more about that tomorrow.” A yawn took her by surprise and it seemed as if everything was distant and unreal. “I think I will have a sleep, if you don’t mind. I was busy right until the last moment before I left and I didn’t sleep much on the plane.”

  Getting rid of a lifetime of possessions after someone’s death was a supremely painful thing, she’d found. If she’d started crying in Australia, she’d never have stopped. Perhaps she’d have time now to come to terms with all she’d lost.

  “I’ll probably run our Angie back home after we’ve had a bit of a natter. Your mum still likes to go for a ride in the car. Sometimes it’s the only thing that’ll settle her.”

  Laura had the quickest shower possible, standing in the adapted bath and wishing for the rush of hot water she’d had at home instead of this sparse trickle. But at least it washed the aeroplane smell off her.

  She crawled into bed, hearing the low hum of voices downstairs as she had in her childhood. It was comforting, though she missed her mother’s laughter. Soon exhaustion took over and she gave in to sleep.

  * * * *

  Kit got out of the taxi and balanced on his crutches as he adjusted the backpack over his shoulder. The vehicle pulled away behind him and he stood looking at his uncle’s house - his house now - with an appreciative eye, instead of rushing heedlessly inside as he’d always done before. He could feel his spirits lifting by the second because this place brought back so many happy memories.

  It was a large, double-fronted, semi-detached residence of three storeys, built in 1884 according to a carved stone set where the two houses were joined. People usually split this sort of house into flats nowadays, but he had no intention of doing that. It had belonged to his grandfather and as the elder son Alf had inherited it, plus enough money to stop working. This had annoyed Kit’s father, who felt he should have inherited something more than a modest financial legacy, even though he had never got on with his parents.

  Alf’s wife Maud had died when she was seventy, which Alf considered young, and from then on, Kit’s uncle had lived in the house alone, though it had been far too big for one person, especially as he found it impossible to do the gardening or maintenance. Kit’s parents had often spoken scornfully of how stupid it was for an elderly man to stay on in a great freezing barn of a place when he could have had a centrally heated flat with all modern conveniences like theirs. But Alf had loved the old place and refused to move out.

  He’d outlived Kit’s parents by several years, for all their vaunted modern comforts, though his house had grown shabbier with each year that passed. In his letters of the last few years he had reported his friends dying one by one, joking that he was going to be the last skittle standing and get his telegram from the Queen. But he hadn’t made a hundred, only ninety.

  Smiling at his memories Kit moved along the path, placing his crutches carefully on the crazy paving. He didn’t want to risk a fall, was terrified of slowing his progress. In only a few weeks the doctors would let him start driving again, which would be a major step towards independence.

  At the front door he fumbled for the key the lawyers had sent him and an elderly woman whose hair was dyed an improbably bright orange poked her head over the low wall separating the two properties and stared at him suspiciously.

  “Did you want to see someone? Mr Mallinder passed away recently, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes, I know. It’s Mrs Ramsay, isn’t it? I’m his nephew Kit. I’ve inherited the house.”

  She squinted at him, then nodded and smiled. “Oh, yes. I recognise you now - you’ve lost a lot of weight, though, and your hair’s longer. Have you been ill?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Alf was very proud of you. He showed me some of your pieces from the papers. Very hard-hitting stuff. Not that I read that sort of thing usually, I’m more the women’s magazine type. Still, it used to make him happy to see your name in print though he worried about you going to such dangerous places.”

  Kit interrupted the gentle monologue. “Look, it’s nice to see you again, Mrs Ramsay, but I can’t stand for long on these crutches. I need to sit down and have a rest. I’ll catch up with you properly another time.”

  When he went inside the house to take possession, he felt as if there should be some sort of ceremony to mark the momentous occasion. After all, he’d never owned a house before. But there was only him surrounded by a few stray, rainbow-hued sunbeams which had daringly penetrating the narrow stained glass windows to either side of the door.

  Excitement rose in him. If he found himself a live-in housekeeper, he could move in quite soon. He wasn’t ungrateful to Joe, but the cramped little house was driving him mad. He didn’t need nursing now, nor a personal carer, just someone to relieve him of the housework, shopping and cooking - and to be there in case he had an accident. Even he acknowledged that such a thing was possible.

  Slowly he did a tour of the downstairs rooms. Alf had obviously lived in the smaller front room towards the end. It was v
ery shabby, still littered with the old man’s personal effects. Kit wasn’t looking forward to clearing them out. It would seem like such an intrusion. Anyway, physically he couldn’t do it yet, so it would have to wait until later.

  He continued his inspection. The other front room had always been known as the parlour and had a formal dining room behind it. Both seemed long unused and the old-fashioned furniture was covered in yellowing dust covers. When he lifted them he found everything in immaculate condition. He stroked the mahogany dining table before he moved on. He’d keep that. But the lounge suite was hard and uncomfortable. That was going for a start.

  The rear room behind the smaller sitting room had been converted into a bedroom for Alf as he grew more infirm and next to it was a compact modern bathroom with shower cubicle. It would be perfect for Kit’s present needs, though like the rest of the house it needed a good clean.

  The kitchen jutted out at the rear, large and extremely old-fashioned but with a new gas cooker at least, plus an elderly fridge-freezer. There were plenty of cupboards and enough room still for a table and four chairs. To hell with modern houses and their miniature fitted kitchens! Kit had always loved this one and remembered sitting at this table and eating his aunt’s home-made scones fresh from the oven with butter melting from them down his fingers. Maud had died when he was eighteen, had been dead twenty years now, poor thing.

  He went across to stand by the window and gaze out at the back garden. A wilderness and not a pretty one, either. Nettles lay in wait for the unwary and brambles looped down one side, while some sort of grass had grown high in the middle area and was laden with seeds. He’d have to get someone in to tidy that up before it spread everywhere.

  He scooted himself up and down the stairs, feeling tired now. It irritated the hell out of him that sitting in a taxi and walking slowly round a house could exhaust him!

  He explored the five bedrooms in a cursory manner, standing in the doorway of each. Only one bathroom up here and of the same vintage as the kitchen. It was dominated by a stained Prometheus bathtub with gigantic clawed feet, a massive, square washbasin whose white surface was crazed with fine lines and whose dripping taps had left greenish-brown stains below them.

  He didn’t have the energy to go up to the attics but could remember visiting them when he was a small child and playing treasure hunts up there.

  As he bumped his way down the stairs again, he wondered with a wry smile if he was creating extra muscles in his backside from this way of moving around.

  When he stood up again at the bottom he felt dizzy. “Enough, already,” he admonished himself. “Go home and rest now, Mallinder.”

  As he called for another taxi on his mobile, he was already thinking out his advert for a housekeeper and feeling happier than he had for a long time. Tiring or not, the outing had lifted his spirits. He was about to take charge of his own life again and that felt so good.

  He turned at the gate to smile at the house. I’ll be back soon, he promised.

  Chapter 7

  In Western Australia Ryan knocked on the door of the two-storey town house, feeling nervous but determined. When Caitlin opened it, they stared at one another in silence for a moment then he said the words he’d been rehearsing, “I’m Ryan Wells. Dad introduced us once.”

  “Yes. I remember you.”

  “Can I speak to you, please?”

  “Not if you’re here to quarrel about something.”

  “I’m not the quarrelsome type.”

  She took a long, searching look at his face, as if trying to read the truth of what he was saying, then held the door open. He followed her inside, unable to imagine his luxury-loving father living in a house this small.

  “Would you like a coffee?” she asked.

  “I’d love one.” He followed her into the kitchen and perched on a stool at the breakfast bar watching her make it. Real coffee. His father had always insisted on that and Ryan shared that taste. Her hands moved surely, very slender, the nails bare of polish. Her hair hung in a tumble of curls to her shoulders, beautiful hair. He’d always been a sucker for natural redheads, though her hair was darker than red, more an auburn shade, really. Over her jeans she was wearing a large, shapeless sweater that he recognised as having once belonged to his father. She didn’t seem to be wearing make-up of any sort and she didn’t look very pregnant.

  When he thought of her and his dad together, he was puzzled. What had a girl of his own age seen in a man so much older?

  “Are you keeping well?” he managed as the silence lasted too long. Oh, brilliant opening gambit! She’ll think you’re an absolute fool.

  “Very well, thank you. I’ve been lucky, really. Just some morning sickness.”

  “When exactly is the baby due?”

  “Still six months to go. I hardly even show.” Her hand went to cradle the gentle curve of her stomach and he found that unbearably poignant, since the baby’s father would never be able to see her growing lush with his child.

  “It’s because of the baby I came,” he said as she perched beside him and waited for the coffee to drip through the filter.

  “Oh?”

  “It’ll be my brother or sister and well, it seems wrong for us not to know one another. So I wanted to ask you to keep in touch.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “I hadn’t expected that. I thought you’d all hate me.”

  “Nobody hates you, not even my mother.”

  “She has reason to, if anyone does.”

  “You weren’t the first time my father’s strayed, if you’ll pardon my saying so. Their marriage wasn’t going well, we could all see that. My sister and I used to wonder why they stayed together. And besides, Mum’s got other problems now, so you’re sidelined. Gran’s got Alzheimer’s and Mum’s gone to England to help Pop look after her.”

  “How terrible! I didn’t know about that. Craig never said.”

  “Pop didn’t tell us until after Dad had died.” The percolator had fallen silent and the aroma of good coffee filled the small room. Ryan breathed it in, enjoying it. He never bothered with real coffee in his tiny flat, just went for instant everything, living mostly on take-aways and bacon sandwiches, or bacon butties as Pop would call them, but he still bought himself a good coffee sometimes for a treat

  Caitlin got up to make their drinks, handing him a mug without asking how he liked it. He stared down at the black liquid. “Um - I take it with milk.”

  Her face crumpled and she gave a muffled sob, pressing one hand against her mouth as if to hold more back. “I’m sorry. I still do it automatically for Craig.”

  He watched her try to stem the tears and without thinking, because he hated to see anyone hurting, he pulled her into his arms. “Shh. It’s all right. You’re bound to do things like that and there’s nothing to be ashamed of in crying for Dad.” His mother certainly wasn’t weeping for him. She seemed angry more than anything and Ryan didn’t blame her. Dad had treated her very badly.

  When Caitlin pulled away, he said, “White with two sugars, please,” in a brisk voice and watched her beautiful hands again as she added milk to his coffee. Then she came back to sit beside him and stare blindly out across the small rear courtyard.

  “I’m not sure,” she said at last.

  “Not sure of what?” He watched her reflection in the window, but it was too faint to give much clue to what she was thinking, and her hair had curled forward to hide the side view of her face.

  “Whether it’d be a good thing for us to keep in touch. I’ll have to think about it. Perhaps you could give me your phone number and - ”

  He fished in his pocket for a card. “I’m moving to Melbourne next week, so this’ll only apply until next Tuesday. I’ve been transferred, you see.” He scribbled on the back of the card. “This is the number of Head Office over there. They’ll know where I am if you decide to - well, keep in touch. I’ll be coming over to Western Australia occasionally on business, so I could still see you and the baby from t
ime to time.”

  She nodded and took another sip of her own weak, milky coffee.

  He didn’t know what to say, so kept quiet, a tactic that had served him well many a time. He just wished his sister would learn it.

  “I’m grateful that you came, that you cared,” Caitlin said at last.

  “Oh?”

  “It was a nice thought.”

  He drank his coffee, chatting about trivial things for a while, then left. It had been the right thing to do, he was still sure of that, but he didn’t think she’d bother to get in touch with him. Pity. He’d have liked to know his new brother or sister.

  His mum would throw a blue fit if she knew what he was doing.

  So would Deb.

  Well, let them! He knew Grandpop would approve.

  * * * *

  When he’d gone Caitlin wandered out to the small courtyard behind the house, caressing the leaves of the bush she’d planted in one corner. It was doing well. She’d intended to plant some annuals, too. Even a few flowers could brighten things up. But now, well, she wasn’t sure.

  She turned as the doorbell rang again, frowning as she wondered who it was. When she opened the front door and saw her parents standing there, her father grim-faced, her mother with an anxious expression, and her cousin Barry behind them wearing his I-am-concerned-about-you look, her heart sank. But she couldn’t refuse to let them in, though she wanted to - oh, how she wanted to!

  Her mother stood in the hall. “It took us a while to find out where you were living, Caitlin. With him! No wonder you didn’t tell us your new address.”

  “Come into the lounge room. We can’t stand in the hall.” Caitlin turned and led the way, a sick feeling settling heavily in her stomach. She gestured to the couch and took Craig’s big armchair.

  Her father sat next to her mother. Barry took a chair from the dining table, swung it round and sat astride it, studying her.

  It was her mother who spoke. “Where is this man of yours?”

  Caitlin looked at them in shock. “Haven’t you heard?”