The Line Between Us Read Online Free Page B

remained, staring down at my Latin textbook, touched with regret that she had been bound to ask and I had been bound to comply, until I put my arms around her waist and leaned my head against her apron, the loss of expectation a transaction between us.

 
     
    CHAPTER SIX
     
    I remembered setting off for my first day of working up at the big house.
    “Better three hours too soon than a minute too late!” Ma had sayings for everything, it was her way of making the world seem known and safe and I was braced for more – “A good beginning makes a good ending,” perhaps, but instead she gave me some sandwiches wrapped in a knotted handkerchief.
    “Cheese and pickle,” she held my hands holding the package as she spoke, “your Dad’s favourite.”
    I nodded, then I looked down the lane, biting my lip, thinking of other departures. I couldn’t shake off the feeling that we were relicts, Ma and I. There was something residual about us. She held me tightly for a moment and part of me wanted to bury myself in the kitchen warmth of her, but part of me couldn’t get out of the door fast enough. I kissed her cheek and her letting go of me was more than just any old letting go and both of us knew it, and I practically ran along Front Street and down the road out of the village to stop myself from feeling sad.
    I was out of breath when I hurtled into the green bowl of your valley and the first glimpse I had of Nanagalan stopped me in my tracks. The house was built in the borderlands in sight of Offa’s Dyke, a dividing line keeping England and Wales at bay. They said in the village that it had been a nunnery once, built from good Welsh stone and simple faith sometime in the fourteen hundreds, and the windows were arched like hands held in prayer, contemplating the vineyard that unfolded down the hillside towards a copse of beech trees. The façade of the later, Georgian wing turned its pale shoulder away from the vines and gazed out at Dancing Green and the Herbar, then on to the nut tunnel and the wildflower meadow beyond, and I stood open-mouthed at the top of the drive, gazing down the length of the valley to the lopsided slope of Long Leap and on to Withy End and it could have been Eden on the first day.
    I made my way round to the servants’ entrance at the side of the house and knocked, then waited an age for somebody to answer, as the house towered above me and I shifted my weight from side to side, glancing back along the driveway. The approaching footsteps I could hear must have travelled several hundred yards to reach me. It was Mrs Brown who opened it, flushed from the kitchen range, bringing the heat of it with her.
    “I’m –” I began. Her blouse was open at the neck, and I mean open, although she was the same age as Ma, maybe older even. She was tucking and patting at her hair, but she interrupted the small adjustments she was making to follow the line of my gaze and I thought I was going to die of the embarrassment as she fastened one button of her blouse, and then another, taking her time about it.
    “I’m the gardener’s new –” I gabbled, not knowing where to look.
    “I know who you are,” she said and she leaned forward and whipped the hat from my head. “Sam’s told me,” she added, “and you take your cap off when you’re talking to your betters.”
    “Yes,” I said. “Yes. Yes, of course,” then, stupidly, “Sam?”
    “Mr Samuelson.” She raised her eyes, sardonic as you like, then handed me my cap. “He’ll be at the press,” she said. “That way. Down by there.” She pointed in the direction of some out-buildings on the far side of the courtyard and scrutinised me as I turned to leave. “Tell him from me that three o’clock is alright, will you? Tell him, when lunch is over, if you will.”
    The press was in a wooden shed, hemmed with bricks around the bottom and small windows of occluded glass high up under the eaves. I put my cap back on so I could tug at the door to