‘It’s not in there,’ I agreed. I opened a drawer in the chest of drawers and found it for him: a slim liquid-filled compass set in a clear oblong of plastic which had inch and centimetre measures along the sides. I showed him how it aligned with maps and made setting a course relatively easy, and told him I always carried it in my shirt pocket to have it handy.
‘But it was in the drawer,’ he objected.
‘I’m not likely to get lost in Shellerton.’
‘You could up on the Downs,’ he said seriously.
I doubted it, but said I would carry it to please him, which earned the sideways look it deserved.
Putting everything on top of the chest of drawers I reflected how little time I’d spent in that room amid the mismatched furniture and faded fabrics. I hadn’t once felt like retreating to be alone there, though for one pretty accustomed to solitude it was odd to find myself living in the lives of all these people, as if I’d stepped into a play that was already in progress and been given a walk-on part in the action. I would spend another three weeks there and exit, and the play would go on without me as if I hadn’t been onstage at all. Meanwhile, I felt drawn in and interested and unwilling to miss any scene.
‘This room used to be Perkin’s,’ Gareth observed, as if catching a swirl of my thought. ‘He took all his own stuff with him when they divided the house. It used to be terrif in here.’ He shrugged. ‘You want to see my room?’
‘I’d love to.’
He nodded and led the way. He and I shared the bathroom which lay between us, and along the hallway lay Tremayne’s suite into which he was liable to vanish with a brisk slam of the door.
Gareth’s room was all pre-adolescent. He slept on a platform with a pull-out desk below and there were a good many white space-age fitments liberally plastered with posters of pop stars and sportsmen. Prized objects filled shelves. Clothes adorned the floor.
I murmured something encouraging but he swept his lair with a disparaging scrutiny and said he was going to do the whole thing over, Dad willing, in the summer.
‘Dad got this room done for me after Mum left, and it was top ace at the time. Guess I’m getting too old for it now.’
‘Life’s like that,’ I said.
‘Always?’
‘It looks like it.’
He nodded as if he’d already discovered that changes were inevitable and not always bad, and in undemanding accord we shut the door on his passing phase and went down to the family room, where we found Tremayne asleep.
Gareth retreated without disturbing him and beckoned me to follow him through to the central hall. There he walked across and knocked briefly on Mackie and Perkin’s door, which after an interval was opened slowly by Perkin.
‘Can we come in for five mins?’ Gareth said. ‘Dad’s asleep in his chair. You know what he’s like if I wake him.’
Perkin yawned and opened his door wider though without excessive willingness, particularly on my account. He led the way into his sitting-room where it was clear he and Mackie had been spending a lazy afternoon reading the Sunday newspapers.
Mackie started to get up when she saw me and then relaxed again as if to say I was now family, not a visitor, and could fend for myself. Perkin told Gareth there was Coke in the fridge if he wanted some. Gareth didn’t.
I remembered with a small jerk that it was in this room, Perkin and Mackie’s sitting-room, that Olympia had died. I couldn’t help but glance around wondering just where it had happened; where Mackie and Henry had found Nolan standing over the girl without underclothes in a scarlet dress, with Lewis — drunk or not — in a chair.
There was nothing left of that violent scene now in the pleasant big room, no residual shudder in the comfortable atmosphere, no regrets or grief. The trial was over, Nolan was free, Olympia was ashes.
Gareth, unconcerned, asked Perkin. ‘Can I show John your workroom?’
‘Don’t touch anything. I mean
‘Cross my heart.’
With me still obediently in tow he crossed Perkin and Mackie’s inner hall and opened a door which led into a completely different world, one incredibly fragrant with the scent of untreated wood.
The room where Perkin created his future antiques was of generous size, like all the rooms in the entire big house, but also no larger than the others. It was extremely tidy, which in a way I wouldn’t have expected, with a polished wood-block floor swept spotless, not a shaving or speck of sawdust in sight.
When I commented on it Gareth said it was always like that. Perkin would use one tool at a time and put it away before he used another. Chisels, spokeshaves, things like that.
‘Dead methodical,’ Gareth said. ‘Very fussy.’
