‘Oh, OK. Thanks,’ she said, brushing her hands on the seat of her jeans.
‘Mrs Buchanan has the key, over at number four on the green; but I’m pretty sure she’s out at her yoga at this time of day,’ the man went on.
‘Oh well, never mind. Thanks.’ Leah smiled briefly and waited for the man to move on. He smiled back at her, and did not move. Leah had hoped to spend some more time snooping around the churchyard, perhaps even looking for some Canning headstones from the right era, but the man showed no signs of going about his business, whatever it might be. ‘Could you please tell me how to get to The Rectory?’ she asked, stifling her irritation.
‘Happy to, happy to,’ the man said. ‘You want to go left out of here and keep walking about a minute until you get to Brant’s Close. It’s on the left. It’s a new road, a cul-de-sac, with lots of houses on it. The Rectory is number two, not far after you turn off the lane. You can’t miss it …’ He followed her down the path as he explained all this, and for a moment Leah thought he would dog her steps all the way there, but at the church gate he halted.
‘Thank you!’ Leah called, striding confidently away. Oh, for the rude, unhelpful and unobtrusive people of London, she thought. The man crossed his hands on the gatepost, and watched her go.
Number two was a small brick house, a square box with a paved front driveway and a very neat little lawn. Early pansies nodded their purple and yellow faces from a row of identical pots beneath the kitchen window. A black slate plaque by the door proclaimed it to be The Rectory, and Leah rang the bell, suddenly unsure of herself.
‘Yes?’ A thin, middle-aged woman greeted her, smiling but with a hunted expression, as if she expected to come under attack at any moment. A lace doily of a woman, Leah thought at once, a little unkindly. Delicate and utterly useless looking.
‘I’m sorry, I think I’ve got this quite wrong,’ Leah said. The doily blinked rapidly, tucking her blue cardigan tighter under her arms. ‘I was looking for The Rectory – the original rectory, as it would have been, about a hundred years ago?’ she explained.
‘Oh, The Old Rectory? Yes, you’ve rather come to the wrong place, I’m afraid. It’s out the other side of the village – only five minutes’ walk. If you take the lane signposted to Thatcham, you’ll find it on the right-hand side a little further along,’ the woman told her, and began to close the door. Leah put her hand out quickly and stopped her.
‘Sorry – you don’t know by any chance when it went from being The Rectory to being The Old Rectory, do you? When it was sold off by the church, I mean?’ she asked. The woman looked at Leah’s hand on the door as though it wielded a weapon.
‘I’m sorry, I really don’t know. Possibly during the thirties. A lot of church property passed into private hands at that time.’
‘OK, thanks. Thank you.’ Leah released her and returned to the road.
When she reached The Old Rectory, Leah paused, stepping onto the sodden verge as a car splashed past. It was a lovely old building, Queen Anne, she guessed; square and symmetrical and halfway to rack and ruin. The red bricks stood proud, the mortar between them long since eroded away. The garden to the front was badly overgrown, although the remains of last year’s geraniums, dead and bedraggled in stone troughs by the door, suggested that somebody still lived there, and made something of an effort. Leah couldn’t see any cars parked anywhere on the driveway, or any lights on inside even though the day was gloomy and getting gloomier. She stood and watched it covertly for a few minutes, in case she saw movement within. This, then, was the house where the letters she had pored over so avidly of late had been written. Her heart picked up a little at the thought. It felt like peeping through a tiny keyhole in a door, into the past. With some unspecified nerves, she went up the garden path and gave the dull brass knocker a good thump. She could hear the sound echo inside.
A youngish man opened the door, just a chink, and frowned out at her.
‘What?’ he said, abruptly. Leah got an impression of narrow grey eyes, short dark hair, several days’ growth of stubble and a slightly bewildered expression.
‘Oh, hello. Sorry to bother you—’ she began, only to be cut off short.
‘What do you want?’ he snapped. Behind him, the house was in darkness. Leah tried not to peer past him too obviously. Suddenly, she longed to explore the place.
‘My name’s Leah Hickson, and I’m doing some research into—’
‘Research? What do you mean?’ the man interrupted again.