“I thought you’d fight more,” Peter said.
Ben looked across at his father. He felt sorry for him more than anything. Not because of the bandages and the broken leg but because of the way he was speaking, deliberately antagonising. Was he just trying to call his bluff?
“If you want to give the place to Martha, that’s entirely up to you.”
“You’re trying to trick me, I know you are.”
“I’m really not. I came down to see you, that’s all.”
“So why are you still here?”
Ben thought for a second before answering. Why hadn’t he gone back to Scotland yet? He could tell himself it was because Martha had suggested he stay, try to work things out with his father. Or he could admit the truth. He didn’t want to leave yet because he didn’t want to say goodbye to Martha yet. Was that a good enough reason? When had he realised that? Was it when he’d first met her in the doorway of the house?
No, not then. It was later. When she’d screamed and he’d run to her. The look on her face had troubled him and he wanted to know what had caused it, what had made her so afraid, her eyes glazed over as if she wasn’t even there anymore, as if she was somewhere far away in either distance or time.
“I’m thinking of staying for a little while,” he said out loud, noticing his father was waiting for an answer. “That’s all.”
Peter nodded slowly. “I see.” A wry smile appeared on his lips.
“What? What are you smiling at?”
“Nothing. Well, seeing as you’re here, would you mind fetching the green file out of the shed?”
Ben stood up. “Happy to.”
He walked out of the house feeling as if he’d been winded. That was the calmest conversation he’d had with his father for as long as he could remember. He’d even elicited a smile from him, though he had no idea why.
He headed out of the courtyard, through the path along the edge of the car park and then into the visitor centre. Joanne was behind the counter. “Can I help you?” she asked as he walked in.
“I don’t think we’ve met, I’m Ben, Peter’s son.”
“Oh, of course. I thought I recognised you.” She saw his confused look. “From the photo in the office. You’ve hardly changed a bit. If you’re looking for Martha, I saw her heading through a couple of minutes ago.”
“Thanks. Have you got the key to the shed by any chance?”
“Martha’s got it on her, I think. Do you want me to go find her?”
“No, it’s all right. She can’t have gone far. Well, nice to have met you Joanne.”
“And you.” She smiled in the same way his father had done as he turned and headed outside.
The sun was just breaking through the clouds as he walked along the gravel path, pausing for a moment by the model of the castle. It stood on a base of reused stone. He remembered when that base was built. He’d sat on the grass bank of the earthwork and watched his father mixing the cement together on a flat wooden board.
He ran his fingers along the bronze castle, something he hadn’t done since he was a child. Then, shaking his head as if to clear away a cobweb or two, he carried on, around the corner and then over the drawbridge.
No trolls today, he thought as he crossed, another childhood memory coming back to him. The longer he spent on and around the site, the more he remembered what he liked about the place. How had he forgotten about the drawbridge? About running over it in fear in case a troll reached up with long hairy arms to grab him and pull him down.
On the far side, he paused, looking across the grass, hoping to spot Martha. There was a family coming out of the underground store room in the corner by the gatehouse. Two children were just heading into the great hall. She was nowhere to be seen. He walked forwards, catching sight of something out of the corner of his eye. Glancing across at the chapel, he saw what it was, the top of Martha’s head visible behind the wall, her hair blowing in the wind.
He walked over, calling her name as he did so. As she came into view he realised something was wrong. She was standing perfectly still, her arms out in front of her as if she was pushing something away. Her neck muscles stood out like cords and she was muttering something, shaking her head slowly, staring past him, then through him as he stopped in front of her. “Martha?” he asked, waving his hand in front of her face, “are you all right?”
She blinked, her eyes focusing on him at last. She looked pale, all the colour drained from her face. “Wh…what?”
“Are you all right?”
She leaned past him, looking down at the ground, squinting as she did so. He turned to see what was holding her attention and noticed something sticking up through the grass. “What is that?” he asked, walking over to it. He bent down and picked it up. It was a tiny little black knight, made out of stone, ivory perhaps, and about an inch tall. “Is this out of the shop?” he asked, holding it in the flat of his hand.
“Put it away,” she blurted out, bursting into tears a second later.
“All right, I’m sorry,” he said, slipping the knight into his trouser pocket. “Hey, come here.” He put an arm around her shoulder and she glared at him as if she was about to push him away. But then she let him lower her onto the wall next to her, the two of them sitting together, his arm resting on her shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she snapped, wiping her face. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. What’s the matter? Has something happened?”
“I told you, I’m fine. What are you doing out here anyway?”
“I came looking for you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What for?”
“I know you came out here to think but I need the key to the shed.”
“Here,” she said, pulling a keychain out of her pocket. There were no less than twenty keys attached to it but she immediately spotted the one he needed, working it loose before passing it to him. “Leave it in the office when you’re done,” she said, getting to her feet and marching away without another word.
Ben watched her go, bewildered by her behaviour. He didn’t for one moment think it had anything to do with the plastic knight in his pocket. It never occurred to him that something so small and insignificant could trigger that kind of a response.
He felt something in his hand and looked down, seeing the key there and remembering what he was supposed to be doing. He headed out of the chapel and across the grass to the far side of the site.
What everyone who worked there called the shed was in reality the old entrance booth. Made of concrete with a wooden roof, it had served its role for fifty years before the visitor centre was built. Positioned by the old entrance to the castle, where the Lords on horseback would have ridden in, it was no longer in use except as storage.
Ben unlocked the door and flicked on the light, surprised that the bulb still worked. The place was filled to the rafters in place. Directly in front of him was the shuttered window where the owners used to sit and serve the public. Below that was a rusting freezer, he could remember digging ice lollies out of that long ago.
There was a set of metal shelving to his left, each shelf filled with files and boxes. He had to squeeze through the piles of old guidebooks on the floor to get to the shelves. The green file was on the second shelf down and as he reached for it, he caught sight of a painting on the next shelf below. He reached down and picked it up, examining it closely.
It was a painting of the castle on a heavy piece of paper. Not professionally done but completed with love, in watercolours that had faded a little. He remembered the day Zoë painted that. It was the height of summer. She had set up her easel by the great hall, capturing the East Tower and the town beyond, her tongue stuck out of the corner of her mouth when he found her.
It felt very strange to look at the painting, knowing the person who had completed it was dead. Holding it felt almost like connecting with her, as if he could almost reach out and feel her hand reaching back towards him, her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth in concentration. In his head she was ten, painting the castle, not sixteen as she was when she died.
How had the painting ended up in here? It didn’t deserve to be dumped in storage and forgotten. It felt too much like Zoë had been dumped there too.
He carried it and the file out of the shed, locking the door behind him. He would give his father the file but the painting he was keeping for himself. That was going on the wall in his room for as long as he stayed.
He thought about Zoë as he walked back, about how things were back then, how happy the family had been. The rot had set in with her death. Something had broken in their home and it was never fixed. His mother became bitter, his father a workaholic. He was angry too, feeling that he was to blame for her drowning, that he should have been there to stop her, to save her. He still felt that guilt whenever he thought about her, about the girl who liked to paint. He wondered if his mother thought of her, if she cared that what she was doing was an affront to the memory of her daughter.