Beneath the Shadows

She wished she had more idea of what Adam might have wanted, but they had only had a week together in the cottage before everything fell apart. In those few days she’d noticed that Adam spent most of his time working on odd jobs, putting off anything sentimental. It was clear he was finding it daunting. While he’d been fond of his grandparents he’d had limited contact with them for most of his life – except for a brief spell when he’d stayed with them for a few months after his mother died. Yet their funerals, so close together, had hit him hard. With their passing, he had lost the last family he had.

Grace had only visited the cottage once while Adam’s grandparents had been alive. She had instinctively liked them, but they hadn’t had enough time to move past polite friendliness. The only other occasion they had met had been at Grace and Adam’s wedding, which had gone by in a blur of excitement for Grace. But she did remember them: inseparable, looking a little nervous and pale on a rare trip to the south, the subdued black and burgundy hues of their Sunday best in stark contrast to Grace’s sunta

Twelve months later, Bill had been taken into hospital soon after his wife had been found dead at home; and the stress and grief meant the old man had never returned. When Grace and Adam had first arrived, there had been a magazine on the coffee table, open at a short story. Adam had looked at it in silence for a moment, then told Grace that he remembered seeing his grandmother reading the stories aloud to his grandfather. He’d closed it and gone across to the bin, then hesitated and put it on a bookshelf instead.

Grace looked over towards the shelf and saw the magazine straight away, exactly where Adam had left it. She bit her lip and put her hands on her hips, as Millie began pushing clothes pegs underneath the sofa. She barely knew where or how to begin. Just do it methodically, bit by bit, she said to herself. Just make a start, that’s all.

She had been putting the kettle on, when she heard a knock on the door. Their visitor was five minutes early.

‘Michael Muir,’ said the young blond man waiting outside. ‘Call me Mike.’

He couldn’t have been more than thirty, but he had the portly bearing of a man much older, and ruddy cheeks to match. He stuck out a plump hand, which Grace shook obligingly before stepping back so he could come in.

Grace looked on as he began assessing the small entrance hall. ‘Livin’ room this way?’ he asked, moving off on her nod. ‘I’ll take a good look round, shall I?’ he added over his shoulder as she followed, then he began to make notes on a pad as he headed towards the kitchen.

Grace let him get on with his assessment while she warmed up Millie’s morning milk and prepared her cereal. She was encouraging Millie to eat when Mike Muir reappeared. ‘Can we go through this now?’ he asked, waving his pad.

She indicated the vacant chair across from her, at the tiny dining table that had been squeezed into the space. Mike Muir contorted his ample frame to fit, sat down, and put his notes on the tabletop.

‘Right, then … you say you’re lookin’ at rentin’ rather than sellin’?’

‘Yes,’ Grace said, ‘for the time being.’

‘And you’re gettin’ shot of the furniture?’

‘Well, I could do – but I don’t have to.’

Mike Muir looked down at his pad. ‘Well, I can certainly put a rental advert out for you – see how we get on. However … can I give you some advice?’ He looked at her hopefully.

‘Go ahead.’

‘Well, as it stands, the place is a bit, er, how shall I put it …?’

‘You can say neglected,’ she replied, smiling.

‘Aye,’ he agreed uncomfortably, his ruddy cheeks darkening to become burgundy splotches. ‘However, if you made a few renovations … instead of looking at long-term tenants – which might cause you some bother out here – you could think about letting it out as a holiday rental instead. We look after a property for a family in the next village who’ve done something similar, and they’re making an absolute killin’ … It’s got to be at least double what you’d get for a long-term rental, all said and done.’

‘Really?’ Grace felt her mood rising. ‘So what do I need to do?’

Mike Muir appeared delighted by her enthusiasm. ‘Well, country getaways like these are quite sought-after. But to be ca

‘Claustrophobic and drab?’ Grace finished for him.

‘Aye!’ He beamed at her, seeming pleased at how easy this was proving. ‘And if you do decide to sell down’t track, you’ll get much more if you’ve done some work on the place already.’

Grace liked the sound of his suggestions. She was turning things over in her mind when he began to get up. ‘Look, take my card, and give me a call when you’ve decided what to do next.’

‘Thanks.’ Grace ran a finger over the embossed lettering, her mind swirling with possibilities. ‘You’ve been great. I’ll think it over, and let you know.’

She went to see him out, leaving Millie in her high chair banging her spoon repeatedly against her Weetabix with a dull thwack. At the door, Mike turned and the colour was high in his cheeks again.

‘I remember your Adam,’ he said. ‘He played for Skeldale cricket team for a time, he was a crackin’ spin bowler. I was right sorry –’

‘Thanks,’ Grace cut in, her unease as acute as his. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ she said, then closed the door smartly to escape her discomfort; but not before she caught one last sight of Mike Muir’s forlorn face looking back at her from the doorstep.

There was only one shop in Skeldale, one of the small villages between Roseby and the coast. It was just a terraced house really, no different to its dozen or so neighbours on the narrow lane, except for the sign outside, and notices Blu-Tacked against the glass of the bay windows. No one else was in sight as Grace hovered in the doorway, casting her eye along the advertisements. She couldn’t see what she was searching for.

A cowbell clanged loudly as she pushed open the heavy wooden door. Inside it was dingy, the scant space crammed with paraphernalia. Boxes of fruit lined the shelves to one side of her, precarious towers of tins stacked in the gaps. On the other side an eclectic mix of items were piled in disordered groups – among them, stationery, candles, postcards and packet noodles. More boxes spilled their assorted contents onto the uneven stone-flagged floor, and in one corner were what looked like a group of witches’ broomsticks. Grace peered into some plastic pots as she went past, to see they contained honeycombs, oozing golden liquid from their tiny pores.