but mainly it was an opportunity to spend much-needed time together. A week ago her sister Laura had telephoned to ask if we would like to join her at her boss’s house in Bath for a few days. Beth had jumped at the invitation and so we packed for two nights away from Bilbo Cottage. However, for me, it felt like the calm before the storm. The thought of meeting up with Laura again made me a little uneasy. There was history between us.
Beth had been quiet since Laura’s invitation and I wondered what was on her mind. Even so, she seemed in good spirits when, on Monday morning, we packed the car and left very early. She had put aside her Masters degree assignment entitled ‘The Case for Monitoring Teacher Performance’ and left her books at home. It was clear she wanted a complete break from essays and schoolwork. It was also a time for us to relax. My brief relationship with Laura was in the past … it was history.
The hours flew by as we drove south and, on the radio, Carly Simon was singing ‘Why’ as we finally approached the city. Beth hummed along, seemingly in a world of her own. The Bath stone had faded with age and was now the colour of gold and honey in the late-afternoon October sunlight. Below us, in a valley surrounded by seven hills, the River Avon meandered on its timeless journey through this spectacular city. Here, over the centuries,
sanitas per aqua
or ‘health through water’ had attracted the infirm and the sick. However, for Beth and me, the healing waters were destined to be of a different kind.
We parked outside an elegant three-storey townhouse in Henrietta Street overlooking the park. ‘This is it, Jack,’ said Beth, glancing down at Laura’s instructions. ‘Looks very grand, doesn’t it?’ Then she leant over, sighed deeply and kissed me. ‘A long journey. Good to relax at last.’
I smiled, climbed out of the car and found the key to open the boot. My emerald-green Morris Minor Traveller, with its ash-wood frame and shiny yellow-and-chrome AA badge, was my pride and joy and, although signs of age were beginning to show, it was reliable and had covered the long miles safely. ‘I’ll get the luggage,’ I said, ‘you ring the bell.’
‘Good idea,’ said Beth, although she appeared preoccupied as I unloaded her large suitcase and my small sports bag.
Laura opened the door almost immediately. ‘Hello, big sister,’ she said. ‘I’ve just got here myself – came straight from work.’ Laura was a manager in the fashion department at Liberty in London. In her mid-thirties, two years younger than Beth, there was a confidence in her manner and a devil-may-care attitude to her demeanour. She was dressed in a figure-hugging, pinstriped business suit and a fashionable black leather coat. With her long brown hair piled high in stylish plaits, she looked simply stunning.
Beth gave her sister a hug. ‘Thanks for inviting us,’ she said. ‘Super idea.’
‘And how’s my favourite brother-in-law?’ teased Laura. She stood before me, gently smoothed my creased shirt collar and kissed me on the cheek. I could smell her perfume, Opium by Yves Saint Laurent. It was familiar and rekindled old memories.
‘I’m fine, Laura,’ I said. ‘And how about you?’
She looked at me with questioning green eyes. ‘Surviving, Jack, in a busy world.’ Then she turned to Beth. ‘Work seems to fill my life now.’
Above our heads, the raucous cries of screeching seagulls, perched on the tall chimney pots of the elegant terraced houses, cried, ‘Go-away, go-away.’ Perhaps I should have heeded their warning.
Suddenly a tall, slim woman appeared from the hallway. She had porcelain skin, a blonde pony-tail and was wearing country cord trousers and a checked baggy shirt. She looked as if she had just stepped from the cover of
Country Living
magazine. ‘Welcome to Bath,’ she said, giving us both a double air-kiss, ‘I’m Pippa, by the way. Come on in and make yourselves at home. You
Beth had been quiet since Laura’s invitation and I wondered what was on her mind. Even so, she seemed in good spirits when, on Monday morning, we packed the car and left very early. She had put aside her Masters degree assignment entitled ‘The Case for Monitoring Teacher Performance’ and left her books at home. It was clear she wanted a complete break from essays and schoolwork. It was also a time for us to relax. My brief relationship with Laura was in the past … it was history.
The hours flew by as we drove south and, on the radio, Carly Simon was singing ‘Why’ as we finally approached the city. Beth hummed along, seemingly in a world of her own. The Bath stone had faded with age and was now the colour of gold and honey in the late-afternoon October sunlight. Below us, in a valley surrounded by seven hills, the River Avon meandered on its timeless journey through this spectacular city. Here, over the centuries,
sanitas per aqua
or ‘health through water’ had attracted the infirm and the sick. However, for Beth and me, the healing waters were destined to be of a different kind.
We parked outside an elegant three-storey townhouse in Henrietta Street overlooking the park. ‘This is it, Jack,’ said Beth, glancing down at Laura’s instructions. ‘Looks very grand, doesn’t it?’ Then she leant over, sighed deeply and kissed me. ‘A long journey. Good to relax at last.’
I smiled, climbed out of the car and found the key to open the boot. My emerald-green Morris Minor Traveller, with its ash-wood frame and shiny yellow-and-chrome AA badge, was my pride and joy and, although signs of age were beginning to show, it was reliable and had covered the long miles safely. ‘I’ll get the luggage,’ I said, ‘you ring the bell.’
‘Good idea,’ said Beth, although she appeared preoccupied as I unloaded her large suitcase and my small sports bag.
Laura opened the door almost immediately. ‘Hello, big sister,’ she said. ‘I’ve just got here myself – came straight from work.’ Laura was a manager in the fashion department at Liberty in London. In her mid-thirties, two years younger than Beth, there was a confidence in her manner and a devil-may-care attitude to her demeanour. She was dressed in a figure-hugging, pinstriped business suit and a fashionable black leather coat. With her long brown hair piled high in stylish plaits, she looked simply stunning.
Beth gave her sister a hug. ‘Thanks for inviting us,’ she said. ‘Super idea.’
‘And how’s my favourite brother-in-law?’ teased Laura. She stood before me, gently smoothed my creased shirt collar and kissed me on the cheek. I could smell her perfume, Opium by Yves Saint Laurent. It was familiar and rekindled old memories.
‘I’m fine, Laura,’ I said. ‘And how about you?’
She looked at me with questioning green eyes. ‘Surviving, Jack, in a busy world.’ Then she turned to Beth. ‘Work seems to fill my life now.’
Above our heads, the raucous cries of screeching seagulls, perched on the tall chimney pots of the elegant terraced houses, cried, ‘Go-away, go-away.’ Perhaps I should have heeded their warning.
Suddenly a tall, slim woman appeared from the hallway. She had porcelain skin, a blonde pony-tail and was wearing country cord trousers and a checked baggy shirt. She looked as if she had just stepped from the cover of
Country Living
magazine. ‘Welcome to Bath,’ she said, giving us both a double air-kiss, ‘I’m Pippa, by the way. Come on in and make yourselves at home. You
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