But. But…
Harper screwed his hands into his hair and groaned. The thing he most wanted to do was go in search of Rebecca. He wanted to return to their flat: the one with the new door and no buddleia growing from the steps. He wanted to crawl into bed, their bed, and curl up with her body tight against his, her arms around him, her hair across his face, her words whispering soothing nothings into his ear. He wanted her to tell him it was all a bad dream, a reaction to the accident. She would show him his cycling clothes, the battered but repairable bike: the life they shared. And, afterwards, when everything was calm and normal, this nightmare would seem an odd and distant memory, a vague nothing subsiding into the mists of the past.
Oh, he wanted her so badly.
Harper was only conscious of his tears when he tasted the salt trickling down onto his lips. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and levered himself stiffly off the table. Like Brendan said, he needed a plan.
8. Manor Of Dreams
Tuesday, 2.55pm:
The powder blue VW Beetle roared down the slip road and swung hard left to make the turn onto the B-road. Fields flicked by on either side as the road climbed gently. Through gaps in the hedge came glimpses of sheep dotted across the hillside sloping up to the left. In the early spring sunshine, their coats looked bright white against the grass.
‘Heaven, heaven is a place. A place where nothing ever happens.’
Rebecca lifted her voice to accompany David Byrne’s deadpan delivery, tapping her hands against the steering wheel to match the song’s measured beat. As the line repeated, she glanced at the pastoral idyll outside then slung the car around another tight bend before accelerating into the straight.
‘There is a party. Everyone is there. Everyone will leave at exactly the same time.’
Approaching a belt of trees, the road kinked again and Rebecca was forced to slow. A slight dip followed as the road passed through the trees and then it started climbing again.
‘It’s hard to imagine that nothing at all could be so exciting, could be so much fun.’
Coming back into the open, she suddenly spotted the sign on her right. Rebecca braked sharply. She paused at the junction, turned off the CD and checked the road. Then she swung the car into the long drive.
Ahead, the gravelled track ran across sheep-cropped ground. A small humpbacked bridge led over a stream before the drive turned back into the same belt of trees Rebecca had just driven through on the road. On the other side, the drive reached the crest of a small hill. Rebecca slowed, taking in the view and summoning her courage.
A few hundred yards below lay her destination. Haworth Manor. All twisted chimneys and mullioned windows, venerable and very English: the sort of place for cream teas and National Trust membership. Except Haworth Manor was not owned by any heritage organisation. The self-appointed lord of the manor was Paul Cash: prolific artist, eccentric bon viveur and unrepentant Lothario.
Cash liked titles. He was only ever granted one: a CBE for his services to the British art world. But the painter never bothered to collect the genuine gong, preferring to create his own awards. After buying Haworth Manor, he began calling himself the ‘Lord of the Manor’ as a joke. One stuffy neighbour took it seriously and made the mistake of snubbing Cash in public. Sir James Manville was a real blue blood and proud of his ancestry. He regarded Cash as little more than a jumped-up tradesman. As a baronet, Manville was entitled to call himself ‘Sir’. Uninhibited by the restraints of convention, Cash felt free to call himself whatever he felt like.
Amused by Manville’s reaction, the new owner of Haworth Manor decided to see how far he could push things. Cash ordered cards and signs printed proclaiming himself ‘Lord’ and used the title on the publicity material for all his work. The name soon stuck and the
Harper screwed his hands into his hair and groaned. The thing he most wanted to do was go in search of Rebecca. He wanted to return to their flat: the one with the new door and no buddleia growing from the steps. He wanted to crawl into bed, their bed, and curl up with her body tight against his, her arms around him, her hair across his face, her words whispering soothing nothings into his ear. He wanted her to tell him it was all a bad dream, a reaction to the accident. She would show him his cycling clothes, the battered but repairable bike: the life they shared. And, afterwards, when everything was calm and normal, this nightmare would seem an odd and distant memory, a vague nothing subsiding into the mists of the past.
Oh, he wanted her so badly.
Harper was only conscious of his tears when he tasted the salt trickling down onto his lips. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and levered himself stiffly off the table. Like Brendan said, he needed a plan.
8. Manor Of Dreams
Tuesday, 2.55pm:
The powder blue VW Beetle roared down the slip road and swung hard left to make the turn onto the B-road. Fields flicked by on either side as the road climbed gently. Through gaps in the hedge came glimpses of sheep dotted across the hillside sloping up to the left. In the early spring sunshine, their coats looked bright white against the grass.
‘Heaven, heaven is a place. A place where nothing ever happens.’
Rebecca lifted her voice to accompany David Byrne’s deadpan delivery, tapping her hands against the steering wheel to match the song’s measured beat. As the line repeated, she glanced at the pastoral idyll outside then slung the car around another tight bend before accelerating into the straight.
‘There is a party. Everyone is there. Everyone will leave at exactly the same time.’
Approaching a belt of trees, the road kinked again and Rebecca was forced to slow. A slight dip followed as the road passed through the trees and then it started climbing again.
‘It’s hard to imagine that nothing at all could be so exciting, could be so much fun.’
Coming back into the open, she suddenly spotted the sign on her right. Rebecca braked sharply. She paused at the junction, turned off the CD and checked the road. Then she swung the car into the long drive.
Ahead, the gravelled track ran across sheep-cropped ground. A small humpbacked bridge led over a stream before the drive turned back into the same belt of trees Rebecca had just driven through on the road. On the other side, the drive reached the crest of a small hill. Rebecca slowed, taking in the view and summoning her courage.
A few hundred yards below lay her destination. Haworth Manor. All twisted chimneys and mullioned windows, venerable and very English: the sort of place for cream teas and National Trust membership. Except Haworth Manor was not owned by any heritage organisation. The self-appointed lord of the manor was Paul Cash: prolific artist, eccentric bon viveur and unrepentant Lothario.
Cash liked titles. He was only ever granted one: a CBE for his services to the British art world. But the painter never bothered to collect the genuine gong, preferring to create his own awards. After buying Haworth Manor, he began calling himself the ‘Lord of the Manor’ as a joke. One stuffy neighbour took it seriously and made the mistake of snubbing Cash in public. Sir James Manville was a real blue blood and proud of his ancestry. He regarded Cash as little more than a jumped-up tradesman. As a baronet, Manville was entitled to call himself ‘Sir’. Uninhibited by the restraints of convention, Cash felt free to call himself whatever he felt like.
Amused by Manville’s reaction, the new owner of Haworth Manor decided to see how far he could push things. Cash ordered cards and signs printed proclaiming himself ‘Lord’ and used the title on the publicity material for all his work. The name soon stuck and the
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