‘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 old smell making her nose prickle. She wasn’t sure she wanted to touch it but she wanted to get at what it was protecting.
‘It is a book,’ she cried and laid it in her lap. Opening the first few pages she saw it was a collection of writings, a few photographs, drawings, a few of which had been carefully stuck into the pages of the book. Rachel turned to the front page:
‘Henrietta Trenchard-Lewis, Her Life.’
she read off the frontispiece.
She looked thoughtfully at the postcard. ‘I ought to give it all back to her.’
‘Can’t, lovely, she died a few years back. She lived to a ripe old age, though.’
‘Oh, that’s sad.’
‘Sad? Oh I don’t know. I think she had a pretty long and full life. She was a right character, by all accounts. Used to give them what for at the home she ended up in. Had two husbands, bit of an old dragon I’ve been told. Terrorised the neighbourhood.’
Rachel looked at him curiously. ‘Did you know her?’
‘I vaguely remember a really old woman on a bicycle – that must have been her. Always wore black. I kept well clear of her.’ He grinned, boyishly. ‘I was scared of her, to be honest.’
‘Were there any children? Perhaps they’d like to have it. I know I would if it were my mother’s.’ Rachel began to leaf through the papers again. It seemed to be a barely begun scrapbook of sorts, with a mixture of an odd assortment of documents: pages cut from an exercise book, some closely covered with tiny handwriting, more postcards, a few faded sepia-tinted photographs. Then she found, slipped to the bottom of the tin, a bundle of letters tied with a faded velvet ribbon.
‘Don’t know. Mr Foster’ll know about that, probably. Who did you buy the place off, then?’ He rubbed a hand over his face in a weary gesture and stifled a yawn. ‘Sorry, it’s been a long day.’
‘A firm of solicitors. Brigsty and Smith.’
‘I know them. In Ludlow?’ He raised his brow at Rachel in enquiry and she nodded. ‘Well, they’ll know what you do with it.’ He glanced at his watch – an expensive one, glistening on a very suntanned arm. As he raised his hand the golden hairs on his sinewy forearm caught the light from the late-evening sun. ‘Better be off. Way past opening time and the first pint isn’t gonna touch the sides. I’ll be round next week with the job spec and I’ll fix up a date to see to the roof.’ He rose to his feet to go, but hesitated and looked down at her. Perhaps he sensed her loneliness. ‘Do you, erm, do you want to come down the pub? It’s a nice friendly crowd. Meet some of your new neighbours.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘No, too tired. Off to have a long soak in some very hot water, thanks to you. Thank you so much for all you’ve done, Gabe.’ She smiled up at him with genuine gratitude for the first time. Their eyes met and a frisson of something, some expectation, passed between them.
He gave her an odd look. ‘No probs. Are you going to be, you know, alright on your own?’
She nodded. ‘I’ll be fine. Thank you.’
‘See you, then. Oh, and don’t forget to see to that cut.’ With that, he swung himself into his pick-up, this year’s registration, she noticed. He and his father must be doing well. And with a wave and a cloud of dust he skidded down the track.
Rachel stared after the Toyota for some time. An intriguing man. And kind. Even though he’d had a long day and was obviously tired, he’d gone out of his way to help. Unsophisticated, yes, but incredibly sensitive and thoughtful. Honest too. No game-playing there. She’d never met anyone quite like him before.
She blew out a long breath. At last she was on her own. But, somehow, now she had what she thought she wanted, the weight of her alone-ness