Page 8 of The Spiral
By the time I’ve finished daydreaming about times gone by, I end up realising I’ve missed a turning I needed to take, so I try to make the Sat Nav redirect me. It does, straight into the middle of God knows where, until I’m driving along a stupidly bumpy road and thanking the heavens for the Range Rover beneath my bottom.
Where the hell am I?
I pull over and survey the area, checking out the large expanse of nothing but grassland for any sign of a landmark or even a signpost. There’s nothing but an extremely rickety looking bridge with a small brook running underneath it in the vicinity. And because of the post and rail fencing all along the side of me, there’s no way for me to turn around either. I start on the road again, checking the time and hoping that being twenty minutes or so late won’t matter too much. It’s not my fault this place is in the middle of nowhere, is it? Although it is my fault I’m lost.
On further examination of the road ahead, I see there’s a gate before the bridge, one I’m rather thankful for because there’s no way this car is going over that safely. I pull over again and trip round the dusty ground to open it, then wonder how I’m going to get back on the road on the other side. So now I’m just standing here, hand perched over my eyes to try to see along the road for another gate somewhere. There isn’t one, but as I keep peering I do see the top of a house in the distance. It’s hiding behind some trees, all grey stonework, and bloody huge by the look of it.
It can’t be, can it?
I go back to the car, digging through my paperwork to find the picture of Blandenhyme. Grey building, elaborate finials. I peer back again, and yes, grey gravel driveway. Okay, go me. I must have found a back entrance somehow, though I’m still not going over that bridge. But if that’s the house, then surely it wouldn’t matter if I just followed the grassland down. This is an off roader after all. That’s what it was built for. Not that it’s ever set wheel on grass that I know of.
Before I think too much of it, I pull through the gate and pop back out to close it again, then tentatively start my off road journey. Seems Range Rovers are quite adept at traversing fields because nothing feels any different for a while. The ride stays smooth, the ground beneath me passing with no trouble at all, and then something happens I’m not quite sure about. The steering wheel seems to turn of its own accord, sliding through my fingers as if the car thinks another direction is a better idea. I peer over the top of the bonnet, looking for what might have caused the issue, and find the ground undulating away from the flat I was on. This steadily increases to rolling bumps, which in turn, rapidly descends into me being flung around in my seat as the bumps increase in size.
I grip on tight, trying to keep the car straight and heading for my target, which doesn’t seem too far away now, but the flinging about becomes wilder and wilder as the car lurches and rebounds again. I don’t know how I’ve managed it, but I appear to be navigating a bloody minefield all of a sudden as I heave and pull on the wheel trying to steady the jolts. And then I hear a whirring noise, followed by an almighty rattle and clank as the car slides to a stop. What the hell? I rev again. Nothing. Then again. Still nothing.
My fingers push the door open to look downwards and back as I rev again, and I see the rear wheel spinning away in a deep wet patch. Great. Some off roader. Mud sprays constantly as I keep revving, hoping something of use will happen. Nothing does. If anything, the spin just seems to make the hole bottomless in the ground as the car rolls back and forth a bit. I slam the door again and put my forehead on the wheel, shaking it repeatedly and then knocking my head on it. Stupid. Jesus, of all the days to screw something up, this was not the day to do it. Why? I just want to get on with my life for God’s sake. It’s a bloody Range Rover. Aren’t they supposed to get over anything? I might as well have the Porsche I wanted for all the good this thing has achieved.
Huffing out yet more irritation, I lay my head back against the rest and stare down to the mansion ahead of me. I suppose I’ll have to walk down and see if anyone can tow me out, apologize profusely for my foolishness and hope it doesn’t blow any chance I have of making this deal. I need this—not for the money, Callie’s right. I need it for me. At the moment I just want to know I can do all this on my own. That I don’t need Lewis’ backing or support. That I can weather my own storm and rebuild my life on my own. This unreasonable position I’ve gotten myself into is not how things are going to get me forward, literally.
My patent blue heels sink as I cautiously step out onto the ground. I try to search for better footing, but there isn’t any. It’s like a bloody bog beneath me, and as I reach for my bag, I notice the front wheel, too, is sunken into the wetness engulfing it. Great. Properly stuck. Well, let’s hope Mr. Caldwell is a decent sort who can help me out of the hole I’ve plainly dug myself into. If not, I’ll have to call the recovery people who will take all bloody night to arrive because I’m not exactly at risk in someone’s field.
It only takes a ten minute struggle to get myself over to reasonably solid ground, but by the time I’ve gotten to it I no longer have stylish blue heels on. They’ve been replaced with mud caked apparitions of style. And my bloody legs are also caked, giving me the appearance of an idiot.
I throw my bag on the road I eventually get back to, digging around in it for tissues or napkins. There’s only a small pack but I have to at least try to make me feet resemble elegant again. It’s not perfect by a long shot, but it’s all I’ve got until I get to the house. Bloody Range Rovers. I’m selling the damn thing. The moment I get done with this I’m getting my Porsche. I only got this thing because Lewis said it would be better and we already had a sports car. It’s not better. In fact, as I keep trudging along, I remind myself that I never really liked the bulky monstrosity anyway. We didn’t have dogs, or children. No horses to tow about. It’s not even like I use it for moving antiques about. I wouldn’t dare. I leave that to the professionals who have insurance and the like.
A noise alerts me to something happening in the distance, so I stop my internal ramblings and look up to see a small red truck coming down the drive in my direction. Oh good, help. At least something’s going right. I take another swipe at my ankles and feet, attempting to clean some of the drying mud a little more so I can try to appear in control when it arrives.
“You alright?” a wrinkly sixty-something man says as he pulls up beside me.
“No, well yes I’m fine, but I’m afraid I’ve got my car stuck in your field, Mr. Caldwell. I’m terribly sorry. It’s just the bridge didn’t look very safe,” I reply, mortified by my own stupidity and assuming this is him. He smiles, crinkling his weathered face up, and hops out of the truck to stand beside me.
“Stuck in the bog, is it?”
“Seems so.”
“These bogs have been the bane of my life for thirty-five years,” he says, as I stare at his dirty overalls and wonder what it is that Mr. Caldwell does for a living given this building he lives in. “Can’t drain them, can’t dig ‘em out. Horses been stuck in ‘em, cows, sheep. Ain’t nothing fixed ‘em yet. It’s the brook, see?” Yes, well quite. I suppose it must be, but chatting about the reasoning isn’t going to get my car out regardless of his nice grandad appearance. “They’re worse on the other side of the headland. Good job you didn’t drive up there, lassy.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Mr. Caldwell. I’m Madeline Blise..“ I stop myself, annoyed at the name that comes too quickly. “Cavannagh. Madeline Cavannagh. I’m here to see about the artefacts and antiques you want to sell?” He nods his head and takes a few steps towards my car, looking it over, or sizing it up. I’m not sure. “Should we do that first? Or I could call the recovery company first if you don’t think you can—”
“We’ll get you out. Not a worry,” he says, cutting in and then walking back towards his truck with a smile. “Just need the tractor to pull your beasty out. Hop in and I’ll drop you off to the house so you can clean up.”
“Right, good news. Thank you.” He smiles some more as I hitch my skirt up to get in the truck, trying not to expose too much of myself. “I really am very sorry. I’m not quite sure how I got on this road in the first place.” He pulls away sharply, causing me to ricochet off the seat and grab onto the handrail. “It’s just, your bridge seems a little dilapidated, and—”
“That bridge has had tractors over it for thirty years. There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“Oh, sorry, I don’t mean it’s not capable. It’s just it seemed … Well, and I didn’t want to damage it any further because it looks a bit... old.” Christ, I’ll shut up, shall I?
He smirks, clearly enjoying his torment of me, and begins chuckling away to himself as we potter back down towards the house.
“Sometimes, you gotta rely on faith to get you through. You remember that, lassy. Just like the old girl up here. She keeps holding on, weathering storms.”
He points up to the mansion we’re steadily travelling towards as the trees seem to part around it. It’s stunning, in a slightly eerie fashion. Its grey façade is covered with a blackening edge, as if years of smoke and the elements have engrained themselves into the fabric of the place. And it’s vast, much bigger than I thought from the top of the hill I was on. The long drive sweeps away from it into the woods, enhancing its ghostly appearance as tall redwoods dominate the area behind and around it, somehow caging it in like a fortress of protection.
“It’s... Wow.”
He chuckles again, changing his gears and slowly trundling us down into the main forecourt. “We’ve not had many visitors here for a while. Shame really. The old girl deserves to be seen more often, lived in.”
“She does indeed,” I reply as I stare up at the building’s magnificence and feel dwarfed by its scale. “How old is she?”