22 Britannia Road - Amanda Hodgkinson [117]
Perhaps he’s lost his mind, but he can’t stop digging in any case. His muscles are pumping like pistons. Shouldering his work like a farmhorse pulling a plough through deep clay, he kicks the spade, driving it into the soil with a murderous energy.
Hours later, he leans against the fence, wiping sweat from his face. He doesn’t rest for long. Throwing down his spade, he goes inside, finds an old newspaper, soaks it in lawnmower fuel and pushes it into his bonfire. He lights it and steps back, smoke clouding around him, stinging his eyes, the smell of smouldering plants filling the air.
The rain gets heavier but still he doesn’t look up from his work. He carries on, even though the red-flamed heart of the bonfire has died, suffocated by the rain and the thick clods of green turf and plants he is piling uselessly onto it.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
Gilbert is looking over the fence.
Janusz steps out of the smoke.
‘Clearing up,’ he says. ‘Getting rid of it all. Leave me alone, please. This is my business.’
And he walks back into the drifting, choking smoke.
Felixstowe
Silvana is unsure, but Tony insists. He is smiling, waving his hands as he talks, excited as a child at Christmas.
‘It’s all right. Come upstairs. I’ve got a present for you. Something special.’
She steps through the open door of his bedroom. She has avoided this room so far. Avoided the memory of his wife which must lurk in the rose-patterned wallpaper and the polished wooden furniture.
‘This house,’ she asks, ‘does it make you sad? Do you think of your wife when you are here?’
‘No,’ he says as he ushers her inside. ‘No, we barely spent any time here together. And I’ve had lodgers since she died. The house has been decorated several times. There is nothing left that belonged to Lucy.’
Silvana sits at the dressing table, the chintz fabric pleated around it like a tidy skirt. She presses her knees together and takes in the details of the room: the pink satin bedspread on the double bed; the bed table with a small lamp on it; and above the bed, a print of a mountain landscape, green hills rolling down to a lake where sheep graze.
Tony brandishes a key in his hand and unlocks the big wardrobe.
‘Here,’ he says, swinging the wardrobe door open. ‘For you.’
Colours glint shoulder to shoulder. The wardrobe is packed full of clothes. Brick red, holly green, duck-egg blue, eau de nil, salmon, pale blue, black, coral pink, cream, gold and silver. Furs, silks, ribbons, velvet, feathers, pearls, sequins. Evening gowns, tailored jackets, day dresses, trouser suits, silk nightdresses, blouses with tiny pearl buttons. Silvana runs her hands over them all. Tony laughs and pulls a fur coat out for her to see.
‘They’re all for you.’
Silvana can’t believe her eyes.
‘Where did they come from? You’ve the contents of a dress shop in here.’
‘I admit they’re not all new, but you’ll agree they’re hardly worn. I’ve been collecting them for you. Some of them belonged to a countess. A very beautiful one.’
‘How did you know my size?’
He puts the coat on the bed and shrugs. ‘I guessed. But it was a lucky guess, right? Try something on and we’ll see.’
Silvana watches him push through the rails, looking for something. Had he always known she would end up in this house with him? Had he planned it all along? She dismisses the thought. There is no point wondering in any case. She is here.
‘This one,’ he says, pulling a silver lamé evening gown from its wooden hanger. ‘This one is my favourite.’
His hand trembles as he passes her the dress, his eyes full of expectation.
‘Try it on,’ he says, and his voice cracks. ‘I want you to have it.’
A thought comes to her. Lucy.
‘These clothes. They’re not …’ She falls silent. She can’t ask him that. She looks at him steadily. ‘You bought them all for me?’
‘Yes. Of course. Who else would I get them for?’
He turns his back while she undresses and slips the silvery dress over her head.
For one terrible moment she thought he might have been dressing her in his dead wife’s clothes. But of course