Not correcting the mistake, Joely roamed the display taking in more of the familiar works and seeing that many of them did indeed feature a much younger Freda. Not as a girl, but as a twenty-or-thirty-year-old woman with an exquisite body and such luxurious long blonde hair it seemed almost to have a life of its own.
‘Is this him?’ she asked stopping at a smaller portrait of a strikingly handsome man with penetrating eyes and a roguish sort of smile.
Brenda came to stand beside her. ‘Yes, that’s him,’ she said affectionately. ‘A real looker, isn’t he? And charm like it was spring flowers in bloom. He had a temper on him though, not that he ever turned it on any of us, it was always when he was trying to write some music or paint a picture and it wasn’t properly working out that he went off on one. We called it his artist’s temperament.’
‘Didn’t they have any children?’ Joely asked, still intrigued by the man captured in oils who seemed so alive, so ready to walk into the room and play one of the many instruments.
‘No, it never happened for them,’ Brenda replied, ‘and it’s a shame because I think they’d have made good parents, the two of them.’
Joely turned around to see if there was any more she’d missed in the room.
‘His painting studio is upstairs next to the tower,’ Brenda informed her. ‘We keep it the way he liked it; only me and Mrs D ever go in there, me to clean, obviously, and she says it makes her remember him better when she’s where she used to pose for him.’
Apparently deciding they’d had enough of the music room, Brenda closed and locked the shutters and led the way back into the hall where she pulled the double doors gently together again.
‘What’s on the top floor?’ Joely asked as Brenda used her apron to wipe a smear from one of the windows.
‘Oh, there’s only more bedrooms up there,’ the housekeeper replied. ‘None of them get used now, so we’ve got them all shut up.’
Joely paused as she caught the sound of someone singing at a distance and looked up the stairs as she realized it was coming from somewhere much deeper in the house. She listened harder and felt an odd chill go through her as she recognized the ‘Gaelic Blessing’. Why was Freda singing it now, and why was she, Joely, feeling spooked by it?
She turned to Brenda, but the housekeeper was already on her way back to the kitchen saying it was time for her to get on.
Not knowing what else to do, Joely followed and after Brenda had left she tried to get better reception on her mobile. It was no good, no matter where she went in the house the signal simply wasn’t strong enough to make calls or receive emails, she couldn’t even send a text. So apart from being unable to contact her mother or Holly, she could also forget about googling Mr D, or his wife’s nephew, Edward.
How frustrating and even disorienting it was to be without the Internet and phone, especially in a house that was positioned with its back to the nearest town and seemed so packed full of secrets. She really wasn’t enjoying feeling this cut off; it was bizarrely like being in a different time zone, another dimension even, and she wasn’t quite sure what to do to make herself feel more grounded. Or less unsettled by her peculiar client.
In the end she drove into town and downloaded her messages in a bustling café over a coffee and muffin. There were plenty, mostly work-related (though no actual offers at this time) and a couple from friends wondering when to expect her back. There was nothing from Callum to say he was still missing her – as do I – or from Holly on whether she’d moved to her grandmother’s yet.
From her mother there was a brief text saying Hope it’s going well. Call when you can.
She tried her mother’s number but went straight to voicemail. ‘Hi, no news,’ she said, ‘just getting in touch while I can because the signal where I’m staying is next to useless. Is Holly with you now? Hope she’s OK. Love you both. Speak soon.’
On returning to Dimmett House she went straight through to the kitchen hoping to find Freda ready to give some feedback on the latest paragraphs, or perhaps to reveal more for the memoir, but there was no sign of her. She toyed with the idea of going into the den to watch a movie or boxed set, but as she hadn’t actually been invited to make use of that room she decided to curl up in front of the fire with one of Freda’s books instead. It turned out to be a gothic tale of necromancy, illicit pleasure and treason, and like most of Freda’s works was hard going and unsettling, although Joely’s concentration was poor. Her mind was flitting between the music room and its paintings, and her host somewhere upstairs silent and uncommunicative, apart from when she was singing.
Joely had been around publishing – newspapers and books – for long enough to know that some editors kept writers waiting simply because they hadn’t had time to read anything yet; or because they were so baffled or appalled by what they’d read that they didn’t know what to say. Some did it because they were sadists. But Freda wasn’t an editor, she was an author, she’d had plenty of time to read, and what Joely had put on the page was neither baffling nor appalling.
So did that make Freda a sadist?
A bit of an extreme conclusion, however she’d certainly know how stressful it could be waiting for a response.
I’m making this too much about myself.
This was possible, but Freda was definitely a strange woman, unpredictable and eccentric – and fixated. For instance, why did she keep her husband’s things exactly as they’d been at the time he’d died? Did she have a purpose for that? Was this her way of freezing time? What had happened to him? And was the nephew Edward likely to turn up while she, Joely, was here?
Where were Callum and Martha going for the weekend?
‘Grandma, are you OK?’ Holly asked, glancing up from her mobile as she wandered into the kitchen. ‘Why are you staring at your phone like that?’
Marianne Jenson sighed and put down her mobile to pull her granddaughter into a hug. ‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ she said. ‘Is Dad with you?’
‘No, he dropped me off and ran. He said to tell you he’ll see you later when he brings my stuff. Can I get something to eat?’
‘Help yourself. So are you here just for the weekend, or to stay? You know you’re welcome. Your room’s always ready for you.’
‘Cool, thanks. I think I might stay. It’s kind of weird being at Martha’s, and I definitely don’t want to be there on my own while they’re away.’
Understanding that, Marianne said, ‘Have you heard from Mum recently?’
Holly slotted two slices of bread into the toaster as she shrugged. ‘Kind of. Why? She’s OK, is she?’
‘I’m sure she is, it’s just that she’s not easy to get hold of at the moment and I’m used to speaking to her every day.’ She left it there, not wanting to confide any deeper concerns in her granddaughter for fear of making her worry too. Not that Holly was worry-free where her mother was concerned, far from it given the break-up of her parents’ marriage. However Holly was currently handling it in her own way which didn’t include discussing it with anyone until she was ready. ‘My reactions, my trauma, my timetable,’ was how she put it, and they all knew better than to try arguing with her.