next week.’
‘There’s no problem. We’re not using the barn for anything.’
They stepped aside. An arm of the sofa thumped into a doorpost. ‘Where’s this to go, missus?’
She pointed through to the drawing room. ‘Anywhere in there.’
‘I’ll get out of your way,’ Hugh Boxer said. ‘If I canbe any help any time, anything you want to know, just give a shout.’
‘That’s kind of you … Oh, who’s the chap trimming the hedge in the lane?’
‘Gideon. We all employ him. He’ll be along to see you, I should think.’
‘We were told.’
‘The George and Dragon’s the best pub for food. Turn right out of the lane and it’s a mile straight on.’
‘Thanks. You must come and have a drink when we’re straight.’
‘Have you got a lot to do?’ he glanced past her into the interior of the house.
‘Plenty.’
‘Nice house. I always thought it was rather attractive.’ He hesitated, as if he were about to say something else, then he turned away. She followed him down the steps and Ben bounded up. ‘Hallo, chap!’ he said, pausing to pat him. ‘You’re not much of a guard dog, are you?’ He gave Charley a cheery wave, and strode off.
The barn had double doors, both halves rotten and held shut with bricks. She tugged one open. Something small scuttled across the concrete floor and disappeared into the shadows. There was a smell of straw and oil. The ancient sit-on lawnmower they had bought from the executors was in front of her, its grass collector unhooked and propped against the wall beside it. It was about the only thing they had wanted that the executors had been willing to sell at a reasonable price.
Halfway across the barn was a wall of straw bales, and a narrow gap to the right which she had not been through before. As she approached she could see an old work bench under a high window. She squeezed through into what appeared to be a derelict workshop.It was dark, with one grimy window filtering out most of the light.
In the middle of the floor was a tarpaulin, old and heavily coated in dust, the shape of a car silhouetted beneath it. Her heart rose into her throat; there was something about it that made her hesitate. A sleeping monster that should not be disturbed.
There was a scratching sound in the rafters and a trickle of dust fell. Rats? Bats? The wall of straw towered over her. More shapes came into focus out of the gloom. An old metal table. A garden roller with its handle broken.
Leave it
, a voice in her head whispered.
I’m not going to be spooked by my own damned barn!
She lifted a corner of the tarpaulin. It revealed the dull pitted chrome of a bumper and a black wing with a sidelight mounted on top. She tried to peel it back further, but it was heavy. She walked sideways, tugged it over the bonnet and saw the upright radiator sandwiched between two massive headlamps. There was a chromium cap on top of the radiator and a small round badge on the front with a coloured globe of the world and ‘Triumph Motors’ in tiny letters.
She stepped backwards, tugging the tarpaulin across the bodywork and over the canvas roof. Finally it came free and slithered into a crumpled heap on the floor. Her nostrils filled with a smell of metal, musty canvas, stale oil.
The car looked familiar.
Because of
Bergerac
on television. She had seen the detective series, knew the model. She circled it. A bulbous sports convertible with running boards and a stubby nose. There was a narrow window at the back of the roof, and two glass panels in the boot where the dickey seats were. The black paint was thick with dustand the tyres were flat. A cobweb was spun across a corner of the windscreen, and a tax disc was visible behind it. She leaned closer and could just make out the faded lettering.
Nov 53
.
She pressed down the passenger door handle and pulled; the door opened with a cracking sound, as if some seal of time had been broken, and the smell of old leather and rotting canvas rose up
‘There’s no problem. We’re not using the barn for anything.’
They stepped aside. An arm of the sofa thumped into a doorpost. ‘Where’s this to go, missus?’
She pointed through to the drawing room. ‘Anywhere in there.’
‘I’ll get out of your way,’ Hugh Boxer said. ‘If I canbe any help any time, anything you want to know, just give a shout.’
‘That’s kind of you … Oh, who’s the chap trimming the hedge in the lane?’
‘Gideon. We all employ him. He’ll be along to see you, I should think.’
‘We were told.’
‘The George and Dragon’s the best pub for food. Turn right out of the lane and it’s a mile straight on.’
‘Thanks. You must come and have a drink when we’re straight.’
‘Have you got a lot to do?’ he glanced past her into the interior of the house.
‘Plenty.’
‘Nice house. I always thought it was rather attractive.’ He hesitated, as if he were about to say something else, then he turned away. She followed him down the steps and Ben bounded up. ‘Hallo, chap!’ he said, pausing to pat him. ‘You’re not much of a guard dog, are you?’ He gave Charley a cheery wave, and strode off.
The barn had double doors, both halves rotten and held shut with bricks. She tugged one open. Something small scuttled across the concrete floor and disappeared into the shadows. There was a smell of straw and oil. The ancient sit-on lawnmower they had bought from the executors was in front of her, its grass collector unhooked and propped against the wall beside it. It was about the only thing they had wanted that the executors had been willing to sell at a reasonable price.
Halfway across the barn was a wall of straw bales, and a narrow gap to the right which she had not been through before. As she approached she could see an old work bench under a high window. She squeezed through into what appeared to be a derelict workshop.It was dark, with one grimy window filtering out most of the light.
In the middle of the floor was a tarpaulin, old and heavily coated in dust, the shape of a car silhouetted beneath it. Her heart rose into her throat; there was something about it that made her hesitate. A sleeping monster that should not be disturbed.
There was a scratching sound in the rafters and a trickle of dust fell. Rats? Bats? The wall of straw towered over her. More shapes came into focus out of the gloom. An old metal table. A garden roller with its handle broken.
Leave it
, a voice in her head whispered.
I’m not going to be spooked by my own damned barn!
She lifted a corner of the tarpaulin. It revealed the dull pitted chrome of a bumper and a black wing with a sidelight mounted on top. She tried to peel it back further, but it was heavy. She walked sideways, tugged it over the bonnet and saw the upright radiator sandwiched between two massive headlamps. There was a chromium cap on top of the radiator and a small round badge on the front with a coloured globe of the world and ‘Triumph Motors’ in tiny letters.
She stepped backwards, tugging the tarpaulin across the bodywork and over the canvas roof. Finally it came free and slithered into a crumpled heap on the floor. Her nostrils filled with a smell of metal, musty canvas, stale oil.
The car looked familiar.
Because of
Bergerac
on television. She had seen the detective series, knew the model. She circled it. A bulbous sports convertible with running boards and a stubby nose. There was a narrow window at the back of the roof, and two glass panels in the boot where the dickey seats were. The black paint was thick with dustand the tyres were flat. A cobweb was spun across a corner of the windscreen, and a tax disc was visible behind it. She leaned closer and could just make out the faded lettering.
Nov 53
.
She pressed down the passenger door handle and pulled; the door opened with a cracking sound, as if some seal of time had been broken, and the smell of old leather and rotting canvas rose up
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