Saving Willowbrook (7 page)

When someone knocked on the door just before seven, she called ‘Come in!' assuming it was Mr O'Neal.

Brett Harding appeared instead, beefy face red, brandishing a bottle of wine. ‘Surprise!' He moved forward, dumping it on the nearest surface and eyeing her up and down in a way she detested.

She dropped the lettuce back into the colander. ‘What the hell are
you
doing here?'

‘Thought you might be lonely t'night, Ella.'

‘Well, I'm not, so go away!'

‘Well, I'm very lonely.'

He was swaying on his feet and she could smell his beery breath from right across the room. Not liking the look on his face, she moved quickly to put the table between them. ‘Look, just go home and sleep it off, will you?'

Strange. She had never been afraid of Brett before, not after going to school with him, even though he was a big man. But tonight he had a dangerous gleam in his eyes and he was so drunk she doubted she could reason with him.

He ignored her request to leave and moved forward quickly, shoving the central table towards her. That caught her by surprise and he crowed gleefully as it banged against her thighs and pushed her back towards the sink. A plate slid dangerously close to the edge of the table.

‘Ouch! Stop that!' She kept her voice low, not wanting to alarm Amy.

‘Aw, loosen up. I c'n give you a real good time, Ella.'

‘Will you stop this!'

‘
Stop this!
' he mimicked. ‘Why stop? It's been three years since Miles left. You must be missing it, Ella. Wouldn't you like someone to warm your bed?'

She abandoned reason and picked up the nearest heavy implement, which happened to be a meat tenderizing mallet. ‘Get out of my house, Brett Harding.
At once!
'

In response, he shoved the table backwards again, trapping her against the workbench.

‘I'll call the police,' she threatened, trying to push the table away and failing.

He sniggered. ‘I'll tell them you were begging for it. Only your word against mine.'

‘Not quite!' snapped a voice behind them. ‘There's my word, too. And all I heard her begging for was that you go away.'

To be discovered in this embarrassing situation was the final straw that lit Ella's temper to white heat. Hefting the meat mallet, she took advantage of Brett's surprise to shove the table away, making him yelp as it hit his thighs. She started round it purposefully.

‘I'll deal with this.' Cameron moved in front of her, grabbing Brett's shoulders and spinning him away from Ella. When Brett made a flailing attempt to punch him, he countered the blow easily, even though he wasn't as big, then twisted the other man's right arm behind his back. Ignoring Brett's bellows of helpless rage, he frog-marched him out of the back door.

Ella let her weapon drop, rage still humming through her. She could have dealt with this herself, she thought angrily. Brett had caught her by surprise, that was all. She could damn well look after herself.

There was the sound of shouting from outside, so she ran to the door and watched as Brett broke away from Cameron and tried to punch him. The blow didn't land and Cameron was clearly refraining from decking his drunken opponent. This restraint gave Brett the chance to grab him and both men fell to the ground. Behind her, Porgy growled and she said, ‘Shh, boy!' without turning her head.

In the parking area, the two men rolled away from one another and got to their feet in a crouching position.

‘Get away home, you drunken fool!' Cameron yelled.

‘Don't you tell me what to do! That bitch has been askin' for it for months.'

When Brett took another clumsy swing at him, Cameron moved swiftly out of reach, circling the drunken man and clipping him sharply with a quick counter-punch to the jaw. Brett reeled back against his van, shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it and swung his fist again, missing completely and falling to his knees.

‘You aren't going to win, you know.'

‘Oh, aren't I? I will if you'll stand still an' fight like a man.'

Cameron sighed and as Brett jerked forward again, punched him even harder on the chin. ‘Just go home and sleep it off.

This time Brett stayed down on all fours, groaning.

Behind Ella, a voice said, ‘Mummy, what's happening? Why is Mr Harding fighting Mr O'Neal?' Clad only in her pyjamas, Amy stood beside her, goggling at the two dishevelled men, holding a still growling Porgy by the collar.

‘Mr Harding is drunk. He was being very silly. Mr O'Neal had to throw him out.'

‘Oh, wow! Like on the TV. Can I stay and watch them fight?'

‘No, you can take yourself back inside, Amy. Ten minutes more and it's time for bed.'

‘But I—'

Amy stamped away indignantly, dragging Porgy with her. The sitting room door banged shut and the volume went up on the television.

Brett dragged himself to his feet and stood for a moment, swaying, fists still clenched. He took out his keys, dropped them and scrabbled for them, unable to find them till he saw the lucky figurine attached to them poking out from behind the car tyre. He'd carried that figurine about with him since school, an ugly little creature with glass eyes that glittered in the light. Ella had always disliked it.

Muttering something under his breath, he opened the van door. There he stopped and turned to look back at Ella. ‘I'll be back. Fancy boy won't be here for long. If you're giving it out, I'll get my turn later.'

‘Then I'll be sure to keep the meat mallet handy from now on,' she called back.

Cameron remained where he was, arms folded, a cold expression on his face, as Brett closed the van door.

She wouldn't like to be on the receiving end of that icy stare, Ella decided, watching her guest. Goodness, how different he looked at the moment to when he'd been talking to Amy earlier! Dangerous and powerful.

Only when the van had bumped off down the drive did Cameron turn and come back towards the house, the icy look softening. As he reached her, he flourished a bow and said with a wry grin, ‘Sir Galahad at your service.'

Dropping him a curtsey, she clasped her hands together and replied in a breathless, girlish voice, ‘Oh, my lord knight, you've driven away the evil dragon. How can I ever repay you?'

His hearty laughter took away some of the nasty taste the incident had left.

But she was still worried about Brett's parting words. He'd not looked like a buffoon then, but like an angry and brutal man.

Four

As the light began to soften and colours lose their vibrancy, Rose put down her paintbrush and rolled her shoulders to ease the stiffness. She'd been painting from early afternoon, enjoying what she was doing too much to stop. Yawning, she released her hair from its bonds, shaking her head as it fell about her shoulders. At least she didn't have to work tonight. She was fed up of serving behind the bar in the Green Man pub, nice as people were there, but she needed the money.

What she really wanted to do at this time of year was go out to Willowbrook with her camera. The place was teeming with wild flowers, birds and small animals like hares, rabbits and frogs. She loved to listen to the bird calls, to watch the changing patterns of flowers as the seasons changed and slid into one another. And then she'd take her photographs home and use them as the basis of wildlife paintings.

Was she fooling herself? she wondered. Was she really good enough to make a living as a painter? She'd been trying for years now and still hadn't managed more than half a living. And was her special project the most foolish dream of all? Who knew?

She sometimes thought the whole village knew about her project because of her working in the pub. There had been considerable interest from customers she chatted to there in the secure box she'd bought to protect and store her finished paintings, and of course in her ongoing progress. Occasionally one of them would buy a painting from her. She was never certain whether that was from kindness or because they liked what she did.

All she was certain of was that she couldn't stop painting. Something in her would die if she did.

She studied her work, her spirits lifting a little. It was good, one of her best ever, and it was commissioned, so would earn her some much-needed money.

Putting the wet canvas carefully on the high shelf at the rear of the room, she began to clear up her painting equipment. She worked in the larger of the two bedrooms in the tiny one-storey cottage, which stood right on the main road into the village and was very cheap to rent. She made do with the smaller bedroom to sleep in, didn't care about fancy furnishings as long as the place was clean and she had a bed. But she couldn't bear her studio to be untidy, or her equipment to be left lying around, so had bought a huge old mahogany wardrobe in a junk shop. It not only held her paints, brushes, rags and stores, but some of her finished canvases. Beside it stood her precious metal box.

Suddenly she heard the screech of brakes outside, followed by the unmistakable sound of cars colliding. Before she could move, something slammed into the side of the cottage, the window shattered and one wall of her studio caved in.

The open door of the wardrobe protected her from most of the flying glass and she cowered back among the equipment, one arm flung up protectively across her face, praying the vehicle wouldn't come any further inside.

When silence fell, she peered out from behind the door, to see the nose of a large van poking through the wall. Pieces of glass were still falling with a faint tinkling sound, the air was full of dust and the metal of the vehicle was settling and protesting about being twisted out of shape.

The driver of the van was motionless, slumped over the steering wheel, but she recognized him at once. Brett Harding! Anger filled her. She'd bet he was drunk again.

On the thought that he'd destroyed her home, she turned to scrabble among the dusty debris for her precious box. There was a shallow dent in one corner, but it was otherwise intact. She looked up at the shelf where she'd put her new painting and although it was dusty, it was safe. It was in oils, so she could clean that. Groaning in relief, she tried to work out what to do next.

Voices came closer and she rubbed her forehead in an attempt to banish the spaced-out feeling and think clearly. Shock, she told herself, but even that understanding didn't make her brain function properly.

Someone opened the front door and a voice called out. ‘Anyone there?'

‘Yes. I'm here.'

‘You all right?' Footsteps came towards her. The handle turned but the bedroom door was stuck and even when the catch gave, there was rubble behind it. Whoever it was grunted with the effort of moving the door back against the rubble.

She watched, still feeling as if she was moving under water.

A man edged himself through the gap and paused. He was tall with dark hair greying very slightly at the temples, and blue eyes that were still as bright as ever. He scanned the room quickly, eyes moving from one pile of debris or broken furniture to another till they settled on her.

They didn't speak for a moment or two, just stared at one another, then she found her voice. ‘Oliver Paige. What are
you
doing back in Chawton?'

‘How delightful to see you again, Rosie – and to get such a warm welcome.' He stared round. ‘You've not changed at all, still getting into trouble.'

She stiffened as he came towards her. She didn't want him to touch her, hadn't wanted to see him again ever. Then she glanced back at the van and reaction set her shaking.

The sarcasm left his voice as he folded her in his arms. ‘It's all right. Shh now, Rose, it's all right. You're safe.'

She let herself relax against the familiar shelter of his chest. Just for a moment or two, she told herself. She wasn't going down that path again.

It wasn't until Cameron came into the brighter light of the kitchen that Ella saw the blood. ‘You're hurt!' She grabbed a clean tea-towel, dampened it under the tap and gently wiped his face.

‘It's only a graze.' He rubbed his thigh and grinned ruefully. ‘I've probably got one or two bruises as well from tumbling around with that idiot.'

‘Sit down and I'll see to that cut.' She pulled out a chair and grabbed the medical kit, trying to stay calm. But being so close to him affected her and she guessed it was affecting him, too. She saw his eyes flicker towards her, heard him suck in a breath. It hadn't happened to her for a long time, but you couldn't mistake the invisible sparks of a mutual attraction.

She said the first thing that came into her head, anything to break the tension. ‘I – um – I'm grateful you came to my rescue.'

He smiled. ‘I wasn't sure at first who needed rescuing. That meat tenderiser could have done considerable damage to your intruder.'

‘It'd have served him right.'

‘I might agree with that, but I think the police would take a different view. Who is he, by the way?'

‘Brett Harding. Son of our local service station and garage owner. I was at school with him. He was a pest then, too.'

‘Sexual harassment is against the law. I could act as your witness to what happened.'

‘Don't I wish! Trouble is, his father's a well-known figure in town and he's rescued Brett from trouble many times. Mr Harding is a member of the local council and chairman of the planning committee. I need his good will.'

‘Nuisance, that.'

She nodded. ‘Let me see to your face.'

‘It's nothing much. I'll just wash it and—'