Watchers of Time - Charles Todd [42]
“Not in my lifetime. The early years of the last century. Though they say that the storms since 1900 are eroding the beaches again, and we might see the water return within the next ten or twenty years. That would be nice!” There was more hope than certainty in her voice. “We serve breakfast at seven, later if you prefer it. And if you’ll be in to luncheon, we’d like to know. It’s generally served at half past twelve. Dinner is from seven to nine. Then the cook wants to go home. You can also find a meal at The Pelican when we’re closed. That’s the pub at the end of the quay.”
She was leading him up stairs that had been painted a soft green to match the carpet running down the center of the first-floor passage. A line of photographs in gold-trimmed oak frames had been hung along the walls, and he saw that they were early photographs showing Osterley when it still managed to attract a few bathers. Dark and faded, but fascinating as history: Victorian women in black silk gowns and bonnets strolling by the sea with black silk parasols shading their faces from the sun; small boats coming in to the quay in deeper water than existed now; and a fisherman proudly displaying his catch, his cap at a jaunty angle. There was a very early photograph of a coaster unloading freight, boxes and bales and barrels, just beyond The Pelican. And next to that, children forming a ring of curious faces around a pair of seals on the strand, their sleek, wet heads cocked in wary uncertainty. In this one, the marshes were a thickening line of reeds and grasses, more prominent to the east, leaving the western side of the narrowing harbor as a last sacrifice to the encroaching silt.
Noticing Rutledge’s interest, she said, “My grandfather took those. Avid photographer with a keen eye for such things. He was lucky with the seals—they don’t come this far south very often.” She stopped before number seventeen and opened the door.
It was a bright room, flooded with light from a double pair of windows. Large, well furnished with a bedstead of mahogany wood, a dresser with a mirror, and a clothespress that matched. A painted washstand stood in the corner. Two comfortable chairs framed a table under the first pair of windows, and a desk was set under the second.
“The finest room in the house,” Hamish murmured.
“I’m Mrs. Barnett,” she told Rutledge. “If I’m not in the office, I’m in the kitchen or out to do the marketing. Leave a note if you can’t find me.”
“I will. Thank you.”
“Do you care for luncheon today? As it’s Sunday, The Pelican is closed. You’ll have to drive inland some distance.”
“If that’s no trouble.”
“We have one other guest at the moment, and she’s staying in. Not a very agreeable morning for exploring the countryside! But I think it will clear by afternoon.”
She cast one last glance around the room, nodded, and closed the door.
Rutledge went to the windows and looked out. From the first floor he could indeed see the water, a thin line of waves curling in, gleaming dully, and a flight of birds rising from the shingle strand. The hummocky, marshy ground filling the harbor from the headland to his left as far as the great hook of land that served as a natural breakwater on his right appeared to be threaded with foot-wide rivulets of no great depth, as well as the little stream that was all that remained of the harbor.
Having seen the photographs in the passage, he realized that the buildings that had once served the sea—shops selling ship’s stores, fish markets, taverns, yards—had long since been turned to other uses. He had noticed one sporting a sign proclaiming a branch of the wildfowl trust. Another had become a smithy-cum-garage.
Hamish said, “I ken the sea taking a man’s livelihood. Storms scour the coast of Scotland. Men drown, ships are lost. It’s a hard life. But here . . .”
“They turned their hands to other things, I expect. Norfolk is sheep country. Or people simply moved on, those with a skill to offer somewhere else.”
For a time he stood there simply enjoying the view, his windows open to the cry of the seagulls and