Page 41 of Tears of Ink

I smile and push the phone back in my pocket. Right, it’s time to get to work.

An hour later, when Jennings comes to knock on the door to tell us lunch is ready, we’ve unpacked everything. I’m not sure if I’ll get used to having someone remind me to eat, but my stomach is gurgling and my back aches from being bent and stooped over boxes. The floor in the drying room is covered in discarded newspaper and we crunch over it on our way back to the stone covered hallway.

Jennings clears his throat as we pass him by. “Your grandmother is attending lunch,” he says to Tabitha, and her face falls.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

She speaks out of the side of her mouth, but there is no way Jennings can’t hear. “It means lunch has become painfully awkward.” As we pass my pink bedroom, I quickly duck through the door and grab one of my oversized cotton shirts, pulling it on and buttoning it up.

Lunch is in the dining room and the large gleaming table is set with silverware. It’s just Jennifer and a woman with a white bob waiting for us.

I didn’t know we were late but neither of them look at us approvingly as we walk in. I say hi to Jennifer who has been milling around most of the morning, organising the staff into cleaning the rooms I think I might need over the next couple of days.

The woman with the white hair looks at me expectantly. It is her house, though; am I supposed to introduce myself?

Finally, after at least five awkward seconds, Tabitha notices us watching one another. “Oh, Grandma, this is Faith. She’s here for the installation Elijah and mother planned.”

I smile and reach my hand forward.

“So, you’re the artist?”

If I thought Jennifer Fairclough was immaculate and together, then she must have inherited the art of being unruffled from her mother. Her silk blouse is tucked into a straight skirt at her slender waist, a row of pearls sit under the collar. Despite the intense and unrelenting heat, she is the epitome of high-class chic. I look like a painter and decorator next to her. I wipe my hands on my loose-fitting shirt.

“I’m a sculptor, really.” I always feel I need to explain to people not to expect any masterpiece canvases from me.

‘I’m Connie Fairclough.”

“Faith Hitchin.”

“How’s it going?” Jennifer cuts in, reprieving me from the sharp gaze of Grandma Baroness. “I see Tabitha has offered her services.”

I nod and reach for a bread roll, before realising no one else has touched the food. I drop the roll and my stomach rumbles in protest. “She’s been a godsend. After lunch, we are going to walk the rooms. I’ve already got some ideas going.”

I need to get ideas going. I’ve got two days.

Tabitha offers me a grateful shy smile, and I smile back. She’s cute. We haven’t spoken much while we’ve been working. I sense she’s painfully shy, and I can remember a time when I was crippled with anxiety every time I opened my mouth.

Grandma Baroness weaves her hands together and places them in her lap, closing her eyes. What is she doing? “Dear Lord…”

My eyes pop open when I realise lunch is being opened with a prayer. A faint snicker comes from the other side of the table, and I meet Tabitha’s amused gaze. I shush her with a glare and then close my own eyes. Where the hell is Elijah? How come he’s been wafting around all morning, and now it’s time for an awkward lunch he’s nowhere in sight?

When we’ve all said “Amen”, I grab for the roll and break it open with my hands, spearing some butter curls on a small white dish and thickly smearing it on the fresh white bread. I don’t even care if I look like I’ve been dragged up in a zoo. I can’t remember the last time I ate and it’s beginning to show.

Once I’ve demolished the roll, I look up to find Jenifer watching me with an amused gaze.

“Sorry, I was hungry.” I smile apologetically.

“It’s almost poetic to have a starving artist in the house again.” It’s Connie that speaks, and I’m sure I catch an eye roll coming from Jennifer as I turn to face the older woman.

“Sculptor,” I remind her with a forced smile.

She ignores me. “You know, this house used to be a retreat for real artists and authors in its heyday?”

Real artists?

“That’s nice.” I place some cold cuts of meat, and a scoop of salad onto my plate.

“Oh, yes. We had Hemingway here once.”