Yesterday’s Sun

Tom’s parents had visited, bearing gifts and even helping out with the physical demands of turning the gatehouse into a home. Typical of Diane and Jack, they had stayed long enough to help but hadn’t outstayed their welcome. They knew without being told that Holly and Tom had a lot of quality time to try to cram into two weeks.

Diane had made sure the kitchen was organized and fully stocked with a range of cooking essentials before she left. She was keen to support Holly in one of her new projects. Holly wanted to learn to cook. Her dad had been keen to show Holly the basics, if only to keep himself well fed, but the basics had involved how to open tins of beans, how to pierce the cellophane before putting ready meals in the microwave, how to make instant noodles, that kind of thing. Now Holly and Tom were living so far away from the conveniences of fast-food takeaways and restaurants on every corner, she was keen to improve her skills. The move into the country was more than simply a change of address; Holly wanted it to be a change of lifestyle.

‘It’s a beautiful house, Holly. Jack and I are so happy for you both,’ Diane told her as they unpacked a mind-boggling assortment of kitchen utensils. ‘And Mum would be too. It makes the pain of losing her a little easier to bear, knowing that her legacy is to help you and Tom start a new life of your own.’

‘I’m just sorry Grandma Edith isn’t here to see her money being well spent. It means a lot to me and Tom that you’re happy with how we’ve used the inheritance.’

‘It’s all about investing in the future. This is where it all starts for you and Tom. This is where your family will be made.’

Diane gave Holly a hug and didn’t see the cloud of doubt pass over her face. Holly only wished she had the same kind of confidence in herself that the entire Corrigan family seemed to have.

Three days before Tom was due to leave, Holly’s to-do list was complete and the house was officially in order. The builders had already started work on the outbuilding and, although Holly was happy to sit back and let them get on with it, Tom obviously felt some kind of threat to his masculinity so he took up his own physical challenge by clearing the overgrown garden.

Leaving the men to their labours, Holly stayed indoors to start work on the preliminary sketches for her new commission. Mrs Bronson was a young wife with a very rich and very much older husband. To celebrate the birth of their first child together, as opposed to the numerous children her husband had fathered from a variety of previous marriages and dalliances, Mrs Bronson wanted to mark the occasion with a sculpture. It would need to be a substantial piece and would become a permanent and prominent feature in the entrance hall to their mansion.

Naturally, the theme of the sculpture was mother and child. Given the theme, Holly had been reluctant to take on the commission, which would take at least six months to complete, but the money was too good to turn down.

She had set out her sketch pads in the study that morning, full of good intentions but with a distinct lack of inspiration. Money alone wasn’t incentive enough to get her creative juices flowing. She just didn’t have that same depth of feeling she usually had to draw upon. She knew nothing about the miraculous bond between mother and child that everyone else seemed to drone on about.

Holly couldn’t recall a single memory of her childhood where she had felt that kind of bond. She had spent most of her formative years feeling either alone or afraid. Her mother had been in her teens when she had discovered she was pregnant. A hasty marriage and an unwanted child had come as a nasty shock to her and she hadn’t been prepared or willing to give up her freedom.

With a young child to care for, her mother’s social life had been severely restricted, so she often brought the party lifestyle she craved into the house. Holly had vivid memories of a house full of hangers-on, either recovering from the last party or waiting for the next. Her mum was always centre of attention, dancing barefoot through the house whether there was music playing or not. She always looked her happiest when she was dancing and everyone was drawn to her, even Holly, like a moth to the flame, eager to share her mother’s excitement. She could remember one time when her mum had picked her up and twirled her around the room to squeals of delight from her daughter, but Holly was never sure whether that had actually happened. She suspected it was merely a false memory of a longed-for dream. The memories Holly could rely on were those where her mum would stop dancing and point an accusing finger at her daughter before proclaiming to everyone that this was the creature who had ruined her life. The look on her mother’s face was one of pure loathing, and that was the image that Holly recalled when she thought of motherhood.

Until Tom, Holly hadn’t even managed to witness responsible parenting second-hand. In her early years, she had been isolated from other children, their parents having already labelled Holly as a problem child because of her family life. As a teenager, she had been naturally drawn to the other orphaned fledglings that had been pushed out of the nest too soon.

Her art had been her saviour in more ways than one. It had been a form of escapism, a part of her life she could control and succeed in and, in hindsight, it had also been an effective form of therapy. She had put a lot of anger into her earlier work and it was only after meeting Tom that she found she could express positive emotion in her art too. The love between a man and a woman she now understood; the love between a mother and a child she didn’t. She was drawing a blank, literally.

She had spent two hours going through the motions of sketching images, but still hadn’t come up with any ideas that were sufficiently original or thought-provoking. She’d sketched out some obvious images of a mother holding her child, a mother nursing her child, a mother kissing her child. Desperate for a new perspective, she’d even sketched out an image of the moment of birth. Possibly not the kind of statue Mrs Bronson would want greeting her guests in the entrance to her home.

Holly had a meeting scheduled with Mrs Bronson in less than a week’s time and she was starting to debate whether or not to cancel the commission altogether. If she went ahead and produced a sub-standard piece of work then that would damage her reputation, which was still in its embryonic stages. On the other hand, reneging on a deal would be equally damaging to her career.

Putting down her sketch pad, Holly headed into the kitchen. The room was large, with enough space for a dining table at its centre. It might have been the outbuilding which had drawn Holly to the property, but it was the kitchen that had sold the place to both her and Tom. The wooden units were painted white, the walls were green and the terracotta floor tiles extended out through the back door and across to a small terrace, which led onto the immense if slightly untamed garden and the countryside beyond.

Holly peered out of the kitchen window, searching for Tom. She couldn’t see him through the tangle of shrubs and trees, but she knew where he was from the sounds of snapping branches and occasional expletives. Ignoring the urge to go and investigate, she started chopping up vegetables – locally grown produce, of course – and set to work making a large pan of soup to try out on Tom and the builders.

‘And what do you think you’re up to?’

Holly jumped, narrowly avoiding chopping a finger rather than a carrot. A pair of arms closed around her waist. Tom had spied her from the garden and crept into the house.

‘Don’t you know better than to frighten a woman when she’s armed and dangerous?’ warned Holly, brandishing her kitchen knife.

‘You’re always dangerous. You can cut me to the wick, knife or not.’ He leaned down and kissed the back of her neck.

‘Don’t go getting sidetracked. I want that garden looking spick and span before you disappear off into the sunset.’

‘Look, woman!’ gasped Tom in amazement, pointing towards the garden. ‘Can’t you see the transformation already?’

Holly peered towards the garden, putting a hand up to shade her eyes for effect. ‘No, not at all,’ she laughed.

‘I’ve practically made a small mountain from all the bracken and deadwood I’ve cleared. I’ve even trimmed your bush.’

‘A man renowned for his literary prowess and he still lowers the tone with childish innuendo,’ remarked Holly. ‘And the garden looks like a heap to me.’

‘Well, it’ll look better when all the garden waste’s been cleared,’ Tom replied sulkily. ‘I just need someone to use their womanly charms on the builders to see if they’ll help me get rid of it.’

‘Well, I’m busy, in case you hadn’t noticed. Go use your own womanly charms on them, I’m sure they’ll be impressed.’

Holly let Tom beg a little longer before giving in. She was secretly happy to have an excuse to check on the building work. The outbuilding was set back and to the side of the house and looked like it had been used as a workshop at some point in the past. It was a one-storey brick building about the size of a double garage. Thanks to Billy the foreman, they had made a good start in the last week and had already filled two skips gutting the place. Thankfully the roof hadn’t needed to be completely replaced, but Velux roof windows were being installed to add more light. Interior walls had been knocked through and new windows knocked out of the outer walls. Each time Holly checked on their progress, the studio seemed to be getting lighter and lighter.

The studio was a hive of activity and Holly found Billy piling rubble into a wheelbarrow. The foreman was probably nearing retirement but showed no signs of acting his age as he picked up huge blocks of cement with ease. He had round features that did their best to hide the wrinkles on his weathered face and he still had a good head of hair which was quite possibly grey, although Holly could only guess at this because he always seemed to wear a permanent layer of dust that made his hair almost white.

‘How’s it going, Billy?’ Holly shouted over the din of power tools.

‘The electrician is coming over tomorrow, so I’d say we’ll be plastering the walls by early next week and putting the final touches to the job.’

‘You’re a miracle worker, you really are.’

Billy beamed a smile at her. ‘Glad to be of service. You can always count on me,’ he told her. ‘Not like that husband of yours. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, he shouldn’t be leaving you on your own to fend for yourself.’

‘Yes, Billy, you have said it before, many times. And like I keep telling you, I can manage perfectly well on my own,’ admonished Holly. She was now used to Billy’s old-fashioned views and, rather than take offence, she quite liked being treated as the fairer sex, especially when it meant she could wrap him around her finger.

‘If there’s anything you need, you only have to ask,’ he assured her with a kindly twinkle in his eye.

‘Well, there is something,’ she began. ‘But it’s that husband of mine who needs the help.’

‘We’ve been watching him hack away at that jungle of yours,’ Billy said. ‘Kept us amused all morning, it has.’

‘Any chance a couple of your lads could help clear away the debris? There’s a pan of soup on the go and a ton of crusty bread for your trouble,’ pleaded Holly, fluttering her eyelashes for effect.

‘Your wish is my command,’ agreed Billy. ‘But while you’re here, you might want to take a look at this. We found it during the clear-out.’

Billy picked up a wooden box from among a heap of building materials stacked up in a corner.

The box was the size of a small shoebox and, although it was difficult to tell underneath the layers of dust, it seemed to be made of oak with brass hinges and a simple clasp. There were engravings around its sides, but again the dust was obscuring the detail.

‘Have you opened it?’ Holly asked with growing excitement. The box didn’t exactly look like it was going to contain a hoard of jewels, but it was ornate enough to suggest it held something of value.

Billy turned the clasp and lifted the lid. Holly’s excitement dissipated in a puff of ancient dust as she peered at the assortment of mechanical-looking objects within. Split into two sections, the box held some kind of glass ball on one side and a selection of brass cogs and brackets on the other. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Haven’t got a clue,’ Billy answered. ‘Consider it a gift, from me to you.’ Again, he winked at her.

‘Thanks, Billy, you really know how to spoil a girl.’

Holly took the box with her back into the house and put it to one side so she could concentrate on getting lunch prepared.

The soup was a success, judging by the speed in which it was devoured by the workers, and with their lunch break over the builders set to work helping Tom clear the garden. Holly wasn’t in a hurry to return to her sketches so she decided to occupy herself with the mysteri­ous wooden box. Having laid some old newspaper on the kitchen table, she set about gently cleaning the box and its contents with soapy water and an old toothbrush. Technically speaking, the toothbrush hadn’t been old that morning when Tom had been using it, but it was now.

The box itself gave nothing away as to its purpose, other than some pretty carvings of the sun, moon, stars and what looked like clock faces. The glass ball was the easiest item to clean. It was about two inches in diameter and as Holly wiped away the dust, she could see that it was made of something other than clear glass. The orb had a perfectly smooth surface but, at its core, there was a small, silvery prism that reflected light out from its centre. It glinted softly in the warm sunlight. Setting the orb to one side, Holly concentrated her efforts on the cogs. Beneath the dust and grime the brass shone and that was when she noticed an inscription running around the edge of one of the larger cogs. The inscription was well worn and unreadable in places, but she could just about make out a few words. Reflection, was one, Key, another and she guessed another said Time.

‘Found something else to do to avoid the dreaded Mrs Bronson?’ Tom asked her. He was covered in scratches from his hard labours, but as Holly peeked out of the window at the garden she had to admit it was starting to take shape.

‘Billy found it in the outbuilding. I’ve cleaned it up, but I’ve still not got a clue what it is.’ Holly showed him the inscription on the cog.

‘“In time, reflection is the key to travelling”,’ Tom read.

Holly’s jaw dropped open. ‘How on earth did you read that? Some of the words have completely worn away.’

Tom beamed with superiority. ‘I keep telling you, I have hidden depths.’

‘Is it a well-known saying? I’ve not heard it before, what does it mean?’ she demanded.

‘Haven’t the foggiest.’ Tom shrugged.

‘Tom?’ Holly asked, eyeing him with suspicion now.

‘You know that stone plinth stuck in the middle of the garden with no apparent use? Well, I found a matching top hidden in the overgrowth. It has the same inscription written on it.’

‘Show me,’ Holly insisted, leaving the array of freshly polished brass cogs to sparkle on the kitchen table.

The stone slab was face-down in the dirt, half buried by years of leaf-fall. It was a deep grey colour with sparkles of quartz glistening through it. Despite working with a wide range of materials in her sculptures, Holly didn’t recognize the type of stone at all. The slab was perfectly round and, as Tom had described, it had an inscription, currently upside down, around its outer edge. There was also a large hole in the centre which looked like it would match the top of the plinth perfectly.

‘Considering it’s been buried beneath all of this mulch, I can’t believe how clean it is,’ Tom told her, shaking his head in disbelief.

Holly traced her fingers across its cold, smooth surface. Her fingers tingled as if a faint charge of electricity had flowed up from the stone and she pulled her hand away.

‘Does it feel weird to you?’ Holly asked, unsure if she had imagined it.

Tom gave her a puzzled look and then stroked the surface of the slab. ‘Feels like stone to me,’ he assured her. ‘What were you expecting it to feel like?’

Holly tentatively touched the stone again and this time there was no tingling sensation. She shook her head, dismissing the thought. ‘Nothing, it’s just me. Can we move it?’

‘And do what? You seriously think we can lift it onto the plinth?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Holly could visualize the stone circle balanced perfectly on top of the plinth and taking centre stage in the garden. It belonged in its rightful place and Holly wasn’t going to rest until it was moved.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to ask the builders?’

‘Are you a man or a mouse?’ Holly stood with her hands on her hips, challenging him.

‘I’m a man, of course. But it doesn’t help that my only partner in crime is a feeble woman.’

‘Just get on with it,’ warned Holly.

Holly put her hands on the stone again, almost hoping its latent power would help them with the task that lay ahead. Tom joined her and they dug their hands deep into the dirt to find a hold. As they lifted the slab, Tom’s face went a beautiful shade of puce and he grunted and groaned. Holly matched him groan for groan and could feel the veins in her neck throbbing with the effort. After what seemed like an eternity of laborious shuffling, they dropped the stone to the ground to take a rest.

‘Not bad,’ panted Tom.

‘Sure,’ gasped Holly. ‘We’ve moved it all of six inches.’ She looked over at the plinth, which was still about twenty feet away. ‘At this rate, we’ll get there in three days and two hernias.’

There was a tut-tut of disapproval behind her. Holly turned to see Billy shaking his head.

‘Mr C, I’m disappointed in you. You should know better than to treat your lady like a common labourer,’ he said, before turning around to his workmates who had followed him into the garden. ‘No offence, lads.’

Holly was about to tell Billy that heavy lifting was an occupational hazard as far as she was concerned, but then she thought better of it. ‘My knight in shining armour,’ she said.

Tom groaned as he tried to straighten his back. ‘Mine too,’ he said, winking at Billy.

Billy and his crew of builders lifted up the stone slab as if it were made of balsa wood and two minutes later they were lifting it over the plinth.

‘Hold on a minute,’ Holly shouted. She had realized that the inscription was still upside down.

With a little more effort, the slab was turned over and placed on top of the plinth. It was a perfect fit. Everyone gathered around the newly formed table and stared at it.

‘It’s a clock,’ one of Billy’s lads said.

‘And it’s telling me it’s time to get back to work,’ replied Billy pointedly.

The builders disappeared as quickly as they had arrived, leaving Holly and Tom alone with their puzzle. Billy’s lad had been right about it looking like a clock. The top had a large dial carved with Roman numerals in much the same way as a traditional clock. There was still a gaping hole about two inches deep in the centre of the dial where the top of the plinth didn’t reach the surface. It was only now that Holly noticed that there were grooves and notches in the upper surface of the plinth and this must be where the dial’s mechanism would fit, the mechanism which was no doubt made up from the box of gizmos Billy had discovered. As well as the inscription running around the outer edge, there was an assortment of symbols, similar to those on the box, etched beautifully into the stone surface.

‘It’s a sundial,’ Holly said.

‘It’s going to make a great feature in the garden.’

‘All I need to do now is work out how to fit all the cogs into it and get it to work,’ Holly replied, eager to return to the kitchen to retrieve the wooden box and its contents.

‘Well, I’ve done all the hard work, so I’ll leave the rest to you. I’ve still got plenty of clearing to do. Unless you want to help me?’ offered Tom.

‘Didn’t you hear what Billy said? I’m not a common labourer,’ grinned Holly.

Holly spent the rest of the afternoon fitting the pieces of the puzzle together. When she had finished, all the cogs were in place in the centre of the dial. Uppermost were four claws, pointing towards the skies, reaching out and waiting desperately to grasp the glass orb. Holly dropped the orb into the claws and it rattled into place, although the claws were opened too wide to hold it snugly. The reflection from the sun as it glinted off the prism deep inside the orb was painfully bright. Holly called Tom over and they both stepped back to admire their new garden centrepiece.

‘I thought a sundial was supposed to use shadows, not reflections from the sun,’ Tom said as he squinted at the orb. He tried to push it down further into the mechanism to see if the claws would close further around it, but the dial creaked stubbornly and refused to move. ‘Looks like you didn’t put it together properly.’

Holly thumped him.

‘What was that for?’

‘You’re not supposed to force the claws like that.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Tom.

‘I just do,’ replied Holly, a frown appearing on her brow. She didn’t know anything about sundials, but this one made her feel uncomfortable. She removed the orb and put it back in the box.

‘I’ll put this somewhere safe. I don’t suppose it’s a good idea reflecting sunlight across the garden when there’s so much deadwood still around.’

‘If that’s a hint, then I’ll get back to work. Time is running out.’

Tom’s words sent a shiver down Holly’s spine. She had a sudden sense of foreboding that she couldn’t quite explain.

Chapter 2

The house felt empty. Tom had left for Belgium in the early hours of the morning. Holly had clung onto him until his taxi arrived and Tom had had to prise her fingers away from her vice grip on the lapels of his jacket as she gave him one final kiss, a kiss that would have to last her for six whole weeks.

‘It won’t be for long. I’ll be back before you know it and, besides, it’s less than two hours away by plane. If you need me, I could be back in no time at all.’

‘I should come with you. Whose stupid idea was it anyway for me to stay at home?’

‘Yours,’ answered Tom, as kindly as he could.

He was right, it had been her idea. She had to accept that she was at a critical point in her career. Moving out of the city when her work was starting to receive critical acclaim had been a huge risk. Moving out of the country would be vocational suicide.

She had retreated to her bed, where she allowed herself to wallow in self-pity as she sensed the distance growing between them by the minute. She knew she was being self-indulgent; it wasn’t as if she hadn’t been on her own before. She could quite easily fend for herself, but that wasn’t the point. Her dream had been to move into the village with Tom, not to be on her own. As she lay in bed, the cheerful birdsong that accompanied the dawning of the new day only served to mock Holly. At least the weather was a little more sympathetic as the storm clouds gathered overhead. Holly pulled the bedcovers over her head and did her best to go back to sleep. It was Sunday so at least there would be no builders to look after today.

The birds had recovered from their early morning hysteria and settled into just the occasional midday tweets by the time Holly pulled on her sweats, tied back her hair and dragged herself into the kitchen to make a strong cup of coffee. She spotted Tom’s half-empty mug of coffee abandoned on the kitchen table and bit her lip to stifle a sob that appeared from nowhere.

‘You pathetic idiot,’ she told herself. ‘Mrs Bronson’s sculpture isn’t going to create itself.’

She took a deep breath and pulled her shoulders back, willing herself to find the motivation to start moving. As she exhaled, her body sagged like a deflated balloon. She tried again and, before her resolve was allowed to falter a second time, she picked up Tom’s mug, gently washed it and put it away, out of sight.