(1990) Sweet Heart Read Free

familiarity returned.
    ‘Have you fed Ben?’ she asked.
    ‘Yup.’
    ‘And Horace?’
    ‘Rats, I forgot.’
    ‘You never remember Horace.’
    ‘Teach Horace to bark and I might.’ He yawned and closed the file. ‘I must get on.’
    ‘How was the lasagne?’
    He was already reading his documents. ‘Fine.’
    She went downstairs. Ben ran after her and over to the front door. ‘Sorry, boy, I’m, not going out in that rain. I’m going to have a hot bath. You can go into the garden on your own.’ She walked through to the kitchen and unlocked the back door. ‘OK, boy!’
    Ben sat down and sighed like an old man.
    ‘God, you’re a wimp!’ She went to the dresser. ‘Hi Horace, you don’t mind getting wet, do you?’ She pressed her face against the glass bowl. The magnified red carp swam over and watched her as if she were a good movie, mouth opening and shutting. ‘Had a good day, have you?’ She opened the lid of its food. ‘How do you feel about moving to the country, Horace? It’s a shitty old place, London, don’t you think?’ She dropped a pinch of food in and it spread through the water like a cloud of fallout. The fish swam unhurriedly to the surface and took its first glum bite.
    Elmwood Mill.
    Something stirred deep in her memory. Like a forgotten name on the top of the tongue it hung there, tantalising her, then slipped away.
    She went upstairs and into the bathroom. As she turned the taps and water splashed out she felt, for some reason she did not understand, afraid.

Chapter Three
    The property was by a lake at the end of a mile-long lane that sloped continuously downhill. They had passed only three other houses, the last over half a mile distant. Charley saw the green and white estate agent’s board through the trees beside a crumbling brick wall which had jagged glass cemented along the top. Daylight glinted through the slats of the rotting wooden gates.
    The appointment was for three o’clock. The car clock said 3.44.
    ‘He must have buggered off,’ Tom said.
    Charley let Ben out. The golden retriever hurtled clumsily past her, shook himself, then bounded over and cocked his leg against the wall. Eight months old, still a puppy. They had got him when she’d given up full-time work.
    The car ticked and pinged and smelled of hot oil. She stretched, feeling flat suddenly, and silently annoyed at Tom for picking her up so late. Always something. For over a year they’d been house-hunting, and every time something was not right. The rooms were too small or the neighbours were too close or someone else got interested and the price went too high. Both of them knew, but rarely spoke, of their need for a fresh start.
    Black clouds like locomotives shunted through the blue sky. Gusting wind tugged at the roots of her hair. The foliage, lush from a long spell of heavy rain, bent in the wind and the sodden grass sparkled under the coarse sunlight. Moisture seeped into her shoes.
    The lake stretched like a grubby carpet between the walls of trees around it, slapping its creases out against the banks. A solitary upturned skiff lay on a patch of grass in front of them under a faded sign nailed to a tree. ‘PRIVATE. NO FISHING. MEMBERS ONLY.’ Beyond it was a metal footbridge over a weir, and a path leading up into the woods.
    A flock of starlings flew overhead. She felt the chill of the wind, more like March than June, and hugged her arms around herself. She heard the rattle of branches, the woodsaw rasp of a crow, the roar of water from the weir. Behind the sounds was an odd stillness after the bustle of London. Strange not to hear any traffic, or voices.
    There was a sharp clank as Tom pushed the gate open, the metal bolt scraping through the gravel of the drive. He was unchanged from court, in his pinstriped suit and Burberry mackintosh. They must look odd together, she in her jeans and baggy pullover and bomber jacket.
    Then her heart skipped as she stared down the sweeping drive at the cluster