Slowly, I opened my mother’s letter.
‘Cassandra,
As you may or may not know, I am dying. The cancer is particularly aggressive and there’s not much time left. Most of the time I’m sedated, though it just feels like a long sleep. Death must be like that, I suppose. It’s the dreams that bother me, though; well, remembering them anyway. Most of them concern your childhood, that is, the three of you.
I can’t disguise it, I never took to you and that’s that. Craig and Merry were always so sweet and loving, if only you’d been more like them. Did you really think I didn’t notice you laughing when next door’s dog almost ripped poor Craig to shreds? What a cruel child! Don’t forget, peevish little madam, it was Craig who made us all promise not to dob you in when you used to steal from the bakery. Oh yes, we knew alright! Pretending to feed the ducks, my backside. Bless him. How we all laughed when, explaining, he said he wanted to see if you’d eventually burst!
And don’t get me started about all the times you slapped Merry. Poor little soul, younger and a hell of a lot smaller than you. What on Earth did she ever do to you?
Frankly, the only good thing to come from it all was the knowledge that I didn’t give birth to you, and Roger didn’t father you. We adopted you; had you foisted on us, really, when some silly tart couldn’t keep her legs closed and we didn’t think we could have another child. Of course, if we’d known Merry would come along... Well, that’s hindsight for you.
We always regretted taking you on. Still, that was then and this is now, and all that’s left to say is goodbye.’
Sitting there, shocked to the core, I read that letter at least a dozen times. Half of me wanted to be able to bring her back to life, just for the sheer pleasure of strangling her; the other half just rejoiced that neither of them was an actual parent of mine.
But who were?
Later in the afternoon, and much calmer, I re-read that letter. How anyone could pen such vitriol, especially as a final missive, was quite beyond me. I only ever slapped Merry once, when she deliberately broke one of my few toys. Craig responded to her award-winning display of anguish by beating me so badly I could not attend school for over a week, while the bruises faded. Thereafter, Merry often used that ploy to get her own way and the wily Craig learned to temper his blows, thus avoiding visible bruising.
~~~
Lucy Erskine was a changed woman. Since her official designation as manageress of “Our Little Shop of Treats”, I noticed a subtle authority assert itself. Now, instead of consulting with me regarding stock, Lucy had introduced a few pretty cushions (knitted, as well as fabric), and some small/medium wicker baskets with patterned fabric linings. These were from local cottage industries. Also, prominently displayed, were brightly painted terracotta flowerpots from the children at Summerlea West’s primary school. Funds raised went towards the upkeep of the school’s pet rabbit and the annual Christmas party. I paid well over the odds for a bright blue pot with six rather inebriated-looking yellow ducks ‘swimming’ around it.
Having hired an assistant, Trish, for three afternoons a week, Lucy now joined me in her flat above the shop. Sitting at the small round table (we called it ‘the conference table’) overlooking the bustling street below, we exchanged news and generally put the world to rights over coffee and the two Danish pastries I had brought along.
“So, Cass, how long is it since your friend went into hospital? It must be two or three weeks.”
“Coming on for five. It turned out she’d done something to her back, too. Some weird and wonderful name that I’ve quite forgotten. Anyway, Elfie’s at a convalescent home now, Autumn Leaves, a few miles north of Summerlea.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of that, Trish’s granny went there. Apparently, it costs a small fortune.”
“Luckily for her she’ll be home again in a week or so. For me, too, come to that. I miss our chinwags.”
Elfie usually lived quite modestly and I remembered her telling me that Jack had not really bequeathed anything much. True, she had the cottage, but I had given no thought as to how she funded her stay at Autumn Leaves, not that it was any business of mine.
“You okay? You seemed miles away there, Cass?”
“Yes, fine,” I smiled. We chatted on about the shop. “Honestly, Lucy, making you manageress must surely be one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. That shop looks fabulous! Come to that, so do you.”
“Aww.” Lucy placed a sticky hand over mine, equally sticky, prompting a fit of the giggles.
“I’ve got something to show you.” I fished ‘Mother’s’ letter from my bag. “It’s been three weeks since I found it, and a second one.”
~~~
Eyes wide and hand clamped over her mouth, Lucy returned the letter to me. “What a terrible thing, Cass,” she eventually spluttered. “How bloody awful is that? Do you know…?”
“Nope, haven’t a clue,” I interjected.
“You know, Cass, there just might be a possible tiny chance of a clue in there. I’m thinking, ‘had you foisted on us.’ Well, you wouldn’t just let anyone ‘foist’ a baby on you, would you, now?”
Admitting that I had not considered that, I managed to steer the conversation back to Elfie. The contents of the brass snuff box remained unknown to her and, since she had not mentioned it, I had decided to surprise her on her return from Autumn Leaves.
NINE
The second letter remained unopened. Lucy thought I was being a bit of a wimp, as she put it and, frankly, I agreed with her. Still, I could not as yet bring myself to discover to whom the spidery handwriting belonged, not feeling ready to possibly lay myself open to more abuse.
The day before Elfie returned home, I decided to pop across and freshen up her cottage a bit, the downstairs half anyway. Finding the door unlocked I tentatively stepped inside, calling out.
Brenda Baxter trilled, “Cassie, that you?” from upstairs. “Bung the kettle on, girl. Mine’s a coffee. I’ll just go next door in a minute for some milk!”
Presently, sitting at Elfie Patterson’s scrubbed pine kitchen table, I asked why Brenda had been upstairs. Since our mutual friend had been hospitalised, we had become quite friendly. Elfie was usually away for two weekends each month and Brenda (never ‘Bren’) and I occasionally met for lunch or went shopping.
“Just sprucing the place up a bit, fresh bedding, that sort of thing. Why’s that, dear?”
I felt a bit silly telling her that Elfie had made it abundantly clear that no-one, ever, was allowed upstairs. “She said it was her private space.”
“First I’ve heard of it. We’ve been friends for many years and she’s never said anything like that to me. My legs are a few years younger than hers and I’ve often gone up to fetch something she’s forgotten, or help her find this or that. Go on, girl, you’ve just got the wrong end of the stick.”
Smiling, I agreed with Brenda, all the while remembering Elfie’s strict instruction. Brenda said she could manage downstairs as well, if I could tidy the garden a bit. “Don’t bother bringing your things over, girl, there’s plenty of gardening stuff in the shed, if you can find it for Jack’s old tools, God rest his soul. The shed key is on the hook by the kitchen door.”
Elfie did not like too neat a garden, preferring what she called a ‘semi-structured wilderness.’ After a relaxing afternoon deadheading and lightly tidying, I returned the tools to the shed. Stumbling over an old plant pot and reaching out to steady myself, I accidently dislodged a moth-eaten old blanket covering something that, frankly, surprised me.
~~~
That evening was pleasantly spent chez Baxter. I had not entered her home before but, after our cleaning and gardening, Brenda had kindly invited me to dinner. Replete with lamb curry, I opened the second bottle of wine I had brought over. Being no wine buff, years ago I had nonetheless discovered a delicious rose that seemed to be a good all-rounder, complementing most dishes. Filling our glasses once more with this fruity brew, we (slightly squiffy by
now) toasted Elfie, her homecoming and our developing friendship.
As with Elfie and myself, Brenda was also widowed. Her husband, Peter, had been a banker. A car crash, forty-eight years ago on Christmas Eve, had killed him and their two children instantaneously.
“I didn’t know what to do, Cass, or how to cope. All those damned presents and no-one to open them… they’re still in the loft. I can’t tell you what I would have done without Elfie, she just came in and took over; helped with everything, even, you know, the arrangements. Jack had only gone in the June, so we spent Christmas Day together, miserable as hell, and drunker by the hour. I spent the night on her sofa, unable to even crawl home. A drunk driver, the police said. I know I shouldn’t say it, but my only consolation was that he died, too.” Shaking her head briefly, Brenda smiled and asked, “What about yourself, girl? What brought you to Summerlea?”
Where to begin? Skipping my childhood, apart from mentioning ‘family issues’ (everyone wants to know, but no one likes to ask), I started with The Lion Hotel in Heatherbridge.
“I began working for Mr. Shepherd, George, while I was still at school; dishwashing, tidying up, that sort of thing. Later on, I was offered a staff room. I’d left school that summer and felt so grown up. An old school friend worked in the kitchen, prepping vegetables and helping with breakfasts, so I wasn’t alone. Eventually, she trained to be a chef while I veered more towards the business side of things.”
“Do you keep in touch?”
“Oh yes. She’s head chef now at The Lion. We’re regularly in touch, and always catch up when I visit, not often though and usually for funerals. In fact, I went for one recently.”
“Yes, Elfie told me. Your mother’s. She said you’ve had quite a time of it lately. Oh, no details or anything, you understand. Well, I’m not one to pry…” Brenda poured the last of the wine in silence, waiting for me to continue.
“I ended up here purely by chance.” Brenda Baxter’s smile could light a room and she leaned forward intently as I explained that, although ready for a change of scenery, I had no idea where to go. “It was only meant to be for a little while, just something different. One evening, Mr. Shepherd spread out a map, giving me one of two pins. We closed our eyes and stuck our pins into the map, the plan being that I chose the place I preferred. Mr. Shepherd only gave me a choice of two in case I took all night deciding! Summerlea West sounded so pretty I thought I’d give it a go.”
“And whose pin actually ‘chose’ S.W?”
I had to think for a few seconds. “Mr. Shepherd’s, funnily enough. Why?”
“Oh, no reason, just mildly curious,” came the breezy reply.
The Baxters had settled in Summerlea due to Peter’s transfer to a larger branch of the bank.
“It meant promotion to manager, and only a ten-minute drive; in summer he quite often cycled there. The four of us hit it off straight away, and Elfie was like a doting aunt to Sally and Peter jnr., well, they couldn’t have a family of their own. When Jack was clearly on his last legs those kids kept her going. Cancer’s such a bugger.” Brenda struggled to maintain her composure. “Funnily enough though, what with me being company and help for Elfie, Peter discovered his inner chef. Neither of us knew he could cook but he turned out some delicious meals; always blended Jack’s portion thoroughly, bless him.”
Brenda washed and I dried. Suddenly, sudsy plate held aloft, she turned to me. “Cassie, I don’t know why I want to tell you this, but I do. Can you keep a secret?”
I told her that of course I could, but to think first as to whether or not she should tell me. Brenda gave it all of two seconds’ thought before continuing.
“It’s always puzzled me, and she’s never mentioned anything, but not long after Jack died, Peter remembered him having said something about Elfie’s daughter. Do you know anything about that?” Amazed, I could only shake my head as I rescued the dripping plate. Brenda continued that it might well have been the drugs confusing him, but I could only recall Elfie’s reaction to my innocent comment as she held Brutus the bear in my bedroom.
TEN
On a fresh, sunny morning towards the end of June, I parked my bicycle in the yard adjoining “Our Little Shop of Treats”. Lucy was holidaying abroad and had recruited me to mind the shop, with help from Trish three afternoons a week. My postcard had arrived the previous day.
“Hot weather, glorious beaches, fabulous nightlife! Glad you’re not here (cramping my style!). xx.”
Elfie had been home for some weeks, fighting fit once more and showing no signs of slowing down. She was away this weekend, “on business”. What the business was she never said and any tentative broaching of the subject was met with what Brenda and I called “The Death Stare”.
I enjoyed helping in the shop. These days I felt comfortable being there and Trish was good company. The single mother of twins was bright and bubbly and radiated positivity. She and her sister, Gwen (a divorced mother of twins), rented a house together. I said what fun Christmas at their house must be.
“Oh, it certainly is, Cassie. That’s one of the reasons I work here, to save for their presents. My main income comes from the weekend market cake stall, believe it or not, and from commissions for wedding cakes. Oh, I’ve got all the certificates and equipment, properly qualified I am. Gwen’s more academic, she teaches at the primary school. It was her idea for the kids to sell the plant pots.” Nodding towards the brightly decorated pots, Trish paused for breath before continuing. “My two, Charlie and Sam (Samantha), are a day older than her Bobby and Emma. So, what’s your story?”
I told her what I’d told Lucy. “Scott was running out of the pharmacy, over the road, as I was entering. He’d seen someone shoplifting and was chasing them; very public spirited was Scott. Anyway, he sent me sprawling and by the time he’d helped me up the thief had gone.”
As we tidied and replenished stock, Trish urged me to continue.
“His eyes were so lovely and gentle, and he so apologetic as he rescued my shopping from all over the pavement, I do believe I fell for him there and then. Well, to cut a long story short, we ended up marrying, ran this place - which he already owned - and lived in the flat upstairs. I’d rented a bedsit since arriving in Summerlea West, so the extra space was very welcome! Since we both loved being out and about, sourcing stock, we were very fortunate when Lucy came along and rescued us. We ended up at Summerlea, where I still live, and Lucy, as you know, has the flat.”
“Aww, that’s so romantic. Any children to complete the picture?”
“No, there never seemed to be a “right time” for us.” That was my stock answer whenever the “children” question came up. Trish did not need to know that my assumed brother, Craig, had raped and otherwise assaulted me so badly that I had assumed childbirth was out of the question. Of course, Scott knew but he was not really bothered one way or the other about having a family.
“Aww. Did you end up divorced, like Gwen?”
“No, Scott died in a car crash, five years ago.” Trish also did not need to know that Scott, normally so calm and gentle, and I had had the mother of all arguments less than a week before his death. Knowing my family history, my husband had been totally unable to understand the bond between my aunt Ivy and myself. Torn as I was between a pre-Christmas trip abroad with him or my aunt’s funeral, I knew I had to attend the funeral. Since his trip included some business, we therefore went our separate ways. The shock and grief I felt at his death was indescribable, compounded by the letter of apology from him that arrived two days after his funeral, bearing several different postmarks.
~~~
Spring had finally morphed into summer and so, the first weekend that no-one was busy, I invited Lucy to meet Elfie and Brenda over Sunday lunch. The sun shone, a large rib of beef slowly roasted… and the electricity shut down. As ever, Elfie stepped into the breach and I thanked God for such good friends as Brenda and I bore the beef and prepared vegetables across the village green to Elfie’s wait
ing gas range cooker.
Lucy hit it off famously with Brenda and Elfie and we all spent a lovely afternoon, later relaxing in Elfie’s garden as we drank wine, chatted lots about nothing much, and lazily watched industrious bees to-ing and fro-ing between the fragrant roses.
At around six-thirty, we said our goodbyes, Lucy and I heading across the village green to my cottage, where she would be staying the night. Taking advantage of the lingering warmth, we headed out into my patio garden carrying coffee (the electricity thankfully restored) and slices of a boiled fruit cake that Lucy had brought along.
“Cass, has Elfie seen the contents of the brass snuff box yet?”
“No. I keep forgetting to take it across, and she hasn’t mentioned it. I think she’s had enough on her plate lately, though. She’s coming for lunch on Wednesday, hopefully I’ll remember it then. I’ve some photos to show her, too, of the Lion hotel in the snow and my old friend, Honeysuckle.”
Fetching the box and placing it almost reverently on the garden table, Lucy and I once more admired its contents. Lucy gazed intently at the piece of old fabric also in the box. “I’ve seen this material before. Today, in fact.” Regarding my perplexity, she laughed, “Oh, come on Cass. How long have you and Elfie been friends? You must have seen it. She has a square of it, oh, about eight inches, framed and hanging on the wall just outside of what I assume is her bedroom. I needed the bathroom earlier. Why, what do you do when you need a pee, hop it quickly over here?”
“Well yes, actually, I do.” Lucy chuckled, at least until realising that I meant it. I explained about Elfie not allowing anyone upstairs, but my having seen Brenda up there. “And now you,” I finished. Unable to imagine why Elfie had seemingly singled me out I was, nonetheless, starting to feel a trifle miffed. Questions needed to be asked and the upcoming Wednesday was as good a day as any.
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