Read Online (1990) Sweet Heart by Peter James - Free Book Online
Authors: Peter James
Tags: Mystery
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the house rewired. They’re meant to be starting today.’
She was not sure he had heard her. He was checking the meter once more with a worried frown.
The Aga was smoking from every orifice, and Charley’s eyes were smarting. A new telephone was on the pine dresser next to the answering machine, its neat green ‘Telecom Approved’ roundel hanging from a thread. The phone was red to match the new Aga — when they could afford it. For the time being, her hope of replacing the existing solid-fuel one was item 43 (or was it 53?) on the list of priorities she and Tom had written out last night. ‘Central Heating’ was at the top and ‘SnookerRoom In Barn’ was at the bottom (item 147). During the next twelve months, if they found nothing disastrously wrong with the house, they could afford up to item 21, ‘Window Frames’. If Charley went back to full-time work, eventually, it would help. (Item 22, ‘Double Glazing’.) For the time being the sacrifices were worth it. It was a good investment. On that point, Mr Budley, the estate agent, was right.
The telephone engineer poked his head round the kitchen door. ‘Same place as the old one in the lounge?’
‘Yes, with a long lead,’ she said, scratching what felt like a mosquito bite on her shoulder.
‘The cordless one in the bedroom?’ He had an attachment clipped to his waist with a large dial on it.
She nodded and coughed.
The engineer looked at the Aga. ‘Needs plenty of air. Leave the door open until the flames have caught. Me mum had one.’
‘Open? Right, thank you, I’ll try that. I’m making some tea, or would you prefer coffee?’
‘Tea, white no sugar, ta.’
She opened the oven door as he suggested and backed away from the plume of smoke that billowed out. She picked up the kettle and turned the tap. It sicked a blob of rusty brown water into the stained sink, some of which splashed on to her T-shirt, hissed, made a brief sucking noise and was silent.
Bugger. The plumber, she realised, had just asked her where the stopcock was. She flapped away smoke. With that and the sun streaming in, it was baking hot. They needed blinds in here (item 148, she added, mentally).
There was an opened crate on the floor labelled in her handwriting ‘kitchen’. Crumpled newspaper lay around it and the pile of crockery on the table was growing. A flame crackled in the Aga. She peered intothe goldfish bowl. ‘Hi, Horace, what’s doing?’ she said, feeling flat.
Ben padded in and gazed at her forlornly.
‘Want a walk, boy?’ She stroked his soft cream coat and he licked her hand. ‘You’ve had a good morning’s barking, haven’t you? The builders, the electrician, the telephone man and the plumber.’
She filled the kettle from the mill race, which looked clear enough, and boiled the water twice.
The smoke from the Aga was dying down and the flames seemed to be gaining ground. While the tea was steeping she admired the flowers Laura had sent, the three cards from other friends and a telemessage from Michael Ohm, one of Tom’s partners, which had arrived this morning.
There was no greeting from Tom’s widower father, a London taxi driver who had desperately wanted his only son to be a success, to have a profession, not to be like him. When Tom had succeeded his father resented it in the way he resented everything he did not understand. He had lived in Hackney all his life, in a house two streets from where he was born. When Tom told him they were moving to the country, he had said they must be mad.
Ben bounded on ahead up the drive. The builders were unloading materials from a flatbed truck, and an aluminium ladder rested against the side of the house. A squirrel loped across the gravel into the shade between the house and the barn. Charley could hear cattle lowing, the drone of a tractor, the endless roar of the water and a fierce hammering from upstairs.
At the top of the drive she felt the cooling spray. The weir foamed water, but the
She was not sure he had heard her. He was checking the meter once more with a worried frown.
The Aga was smoking from every orifice, and Charley’s eyes were smarting. A new telephone was on the pine dresser next to the answering machine, its neat green ‘Telecom Approved’ roundel hanging from a thread. The phone was red to match the new Aga — when they could afford it. For the time being, her hope of replacing the existing solid-fuel one was item 43 (or was it 53?) on the list of priorities she and Tom had written out last night. ‘Central Heating’ was at the top and ‘SnookerRoom In Barn’ was at the bottom (item 147). During the next twelve months, if they found nothing disastrously wrong with the house, they could afford up to item 21, ‘Window Frames’. If Charley went back to full-time work, eventually, it would help. (Item 22, ‘Double Glazing’.) For the time being the sacrifices were worth it. It was a good investment. On that point, Mr Budley, the estate agent, was right.
The telephone engineer poked his head round the kitchen door. ‘Same place as the old one in the lounge?’
‘Yes, with a long lead,’ she said, scratching what felt like a mosquito bite on her shoulder.
‘The cordless one in the bedroom?’ He had an attachment clipped to his waist with a large dial on it.
She nodded and coughed.
The engineer looked at the Aga. ‘Needs plenty of air. Leave the door open until the flames have caught. Me mum had one.’
‘Open? Right, thank you, I’ll try that. I’m making some tea, or would you prefer coffee?’
‘Tea, white no sugar, ta.’
She opened the oven door as he suggested and backed away from the plume of smoke that billowed out. She picked up the kettle and turned the tap. It sicked a blob of rusty brown water into the stained sink, some of which splashed on to her T-shirt, hissed, made a brief sucking noise and was silent.
Bugger. The plumber, she realised, had just asked her where the stopcock was. She flapped away smoke. With that and the sun streaming in, it was baking hot. They needed blinds in here (item 148, she added, mentally).
There was an opened crate on the floor labelled in her handwriting ‘kitchen’. Crumpled newspaper lay around it and the pile of crockery on the table was growing. A flame crackled in the Aga. She peered intothe goldfish bowl. ‘Hi, Horace, what’s doing?’ she said, feeling flat.
Ben padded in and gazed at her forlornly.
‘Want a walk, boy?’ She stroked his soft cream coat and he licked her hand. ‘You’ve had a good morning’s barking, haven’t you? The builders, the electrician, the telephone man and the plumber.’
She filled the kettle from the mill race, which looked clear enough, and boiled the water twice.
The smoke from the Aga was dying down and the flames seemed to be gaining ground. While the tea was steeping she admired the flowers Laura had sent, the three cards from other friends and a telemessage from Michael Ohm, one of Tom’s partners, which had arrived this morning.
There was no greeting from Tom’s widower father, a London taxi driver who had desperately wanted his only son to be a success, to have a profession, not to be like him. When Tom had succeeded his father resented it in the way he resented everything he did not understand. He had lived in Hackney all his life, in a house two streets from where he was born. When Tom told him they were moving to the country, he had said they must be mad.
Ben bounded on ahead up the drive. The builders were unloading materials from a flatbed truck, and an aluminium ladder rested against the side of the house. A squirrel loped across the gravel into the shade between the house and the barn. Charley could hear cattle lowing, the drone of a tractor, the endless roar of the water and a fierce hammering from upstairs.
At the top of the drive she felt the cooling spray. The weir foamed water, but the
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