The House of Echoes by Rachel Crowther

Author:Rachel Crowther [Crowther, Rachel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloodhound Books

Chapter Thirty-Two

Con and Philip arrived back at Lowlands on Tuesday afternoon, and Con was in bed by seven o’clock that night, hoping to kill off the jet lag. But sleep proved elusive.

She couldn’t tell whether it felt as though they’d been away for a long time, or no time at all, but as Ursula had predicted, she’d hardly managed to get the days the right way up while they were in Wellington. It had felt as though she’d turned nocturnal – or perhaps the sun had, shining all night and hiding away during the day. Philip had managed better, addressing himself scientifically to the problem of jet lag, but it had seemed to Con rather apt to drift through the weekend so topsy-turvy, never quite sure whether she was awake or dreaming. You had never known where you were with Roy, either. Never known whether he was coming or going, preparing for a grand entrance or a sudden, stealthy exit.

Ursula had insisted that Con and Philip sat next to her at the front of St Hugh’s, a stone-built Gothic revival church that looked disconcertingly as though it had been transplanted from Somerset. Sitting beside Ursula had been disconcerting too, and Con had been glad of Philip on her other side. Just the three of them in the family pew, which seemed peculiar for a man who had gone through wives and lovers with such gusto. But the church had been moderately full, even if Con hadn’t known a single face. She hadn’t recognised anything of her one-time husband in the eulogy delivered by the young priest, either – and she hadn’t much liked Ursula, although perhaps that shouldn’t have been a surprise.

She was glad to be home, anyway, even if the inversion of night and day had caught her out again on the return leg. Was she pleased to have gone? she wondered, lying awake as the night crept tauntingly past. Probably. She was pleased to have done the right thing, although there wasn’t a soul who would have noticed if she hadn’t, except for Ursula. It had cost a small fortune, and she had no expectation of being left anything – even enough for the plane tickets – in Roy’s will. Ursula had told her, with characteristic candour, that the house was in her name. Con had waited to hear more – whether there was anything for Philip, or for Mab and Nessa – but there had been no more disclosures, and she certainly wasn’t going to ask.

Seeing the house and the neighbourhood, glimpses of the city and the coastline, Con had found it hard to imagine Roy living there. The people who came to the funeral must have been friends, but they could have been hired extras for all the connection Con could discern to the man she’d known. Ursula’s friends, she’d felt sure, not his. The house – an angular, white-painted, large-windowed villa just outside the city – was filled with Roy’s recent paintings, and the sight of them had made Con sad.

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