Stranger Still

by Marilyn Messik

  As is probably often the case at weddings, I don’t think the main man and I exchanged more than a couple of words until we were in the car en route to a hotel for the first night of our honeymoon. Tired though we were, we took the time for a brief discussion on the condition and causes of my stomach discomfort, and I was finally able to identify it for what it was.

  “Apprehension,” I said and after a pause, “it’s Ruth.”

  “What’s Ruth?”

  “This feeling; something’s wrong, I think something’s going to happen.”

  “Think or know?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Well, even if you’re not sure,” he said reasonably, “you can’t just ignore it, ring and tell her.”

  Familiar, perhaps too familiar, with all the oddities that make up who and what I am, this feeling was nothing I remotely recognised. It was unpleasant, uncomfortable and nothing I’d experienced before. He was right though; I couldn’t keep it to myself.

  “We’ll stop at the next phone box,” I said, “I’ll call and tell them. I’ll feel fine once I’ve done that.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  As it turned out we didn’t find a phone box, at least not one that worked and by the time we reached the hotel, I’d changed my mind again, this wasn’t something I could convey accurately over the phone, it felt too serious. However much I wanted to get it done, dusted and off my conscience, I couldn’t ignore the ever-strengthening foreboding. It was Rachael who answered the phone.

  “I need to come and see you,” I said.

  “Didn’t you just get married?” I was surprised she knew; the two parts of my life were very separate, which was how I preferred it.

  “Yes, but…”

  “Why are you phoning me then?” she always sounded as if she was holding the receiver reluctantly and couldn’t wait to put it down.

  “Told you; want see you, you and Ruth.”

  “Why?”

  “Something and probably nothing, I’ll explain when I see you, is Ruth with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re at the new place?”

  She tutted, impatient with the obvious, “You know I am, haven’t you just phoned me here?”

  “Right, well can we pop in tomorrow morning?”

  “We?”

  “David’s with me because yes, I did just get married.”

  “Very well, if you feel it’s absolutely necessary, seems an odd start to a honeymoon. You have the address?”

  “Yes, should get there about...” but she’d already hung up. I put the phone down slowly. David was working his way through the plate of sandwiches we’d ordered, neither of us had managed to eat much at the party. He raised an eyebrow as he poured a cup of tea and handed it to me.

  “Detour definite?”

  “D’you mind?”

  “Not much choice.”

  “We don’t have to; we can discuss it.”

  “We already did. Anyway, you’re as jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof, and we both know you won’t calm down till you’ve done whatever it is you have to.” He held up a hand as I started to interrupt, “You still feeling it?”

  “Maybe,” I said. Although that wasn’t true, the apprehension was absolute and I had that unpleasant acidy feeling you get when you’re hungry, although eating anything right now felt distinctly unappealing.

  “We’ll go see her, sort it, and then we can head off with an easy mind.” He extended the plate with a few sandwiches loitering; I shook my head, so he started in on them himself. “You know,” he continued, finishing a mouthful, “it’s probably just stuff left over from everything that happened last year.” I nodded slowly; it was indeed not that long since I’d been involved in a couple of unsettling encounters featuring obsession, abduction, homicidal rage, a near-death experience and in the last incident, a truly unsettling amount of blood.

  “Not having second thoughts, are you?” I asked. David had found himself playing a part in events the previous year, and whilst I’d become accustomed to the hair-raising, he’d leapt in unprepared.

  “About?” he was taking things out of his overnight bag which I could see had been packed with his usual precision.

  “Me.”

  “Bit late now,” he looked up and grinned.

  “You could cite unreasonable behaviour.” I floated an unfolded napkin to land fetchingly on his head.

  “I’d be laughed out of court,” he pulled the white linen off, folded it neatly and put it back on the tray, “more likely to get a psychiatrist than a settlement. Ah, here it is,” he pulled out a tattered A-Z, “where did you say this place was?”

  * * * *

  I had no idea what had governed the Peacock’s decision to move; Rachael worked on a strictly need-to-know basis and as far as she was concerned, the fewer people who needed to know anything, the better. Her attitude never struck me as odd – I grew up under the eye of a grandmother who wouldn’t tell her left hand what her right was doing, even in an emergency. And, considering the sort of thing in which Rachael and her sister Ruth tended to get involved, it seemed a reasonable precaution.

  I’d received a brief communication a few months back, in her distinctive looped hand and purple ink; ‘Moving next week. Details below.’ She hadn’t signed it, why would she, who else had such a pithy turn of phrase? I called immediately to find out more; luckily it was Ruth who picked up that time.

  “You sound tired,” I said.

  She sighed, “Moving is never easy. We’ve been a long time in this house and you cannot, Stella dear, for one moment imagine the amount of stuff we have, and you know I hate throwing away anything. Of course, Rachael feels she must conduct things like a military exercise, so exhausting.” I laughed, Rachael Peacock in organising mode was a force to be reckoned with, although Ruth was usually adept, probably the only one who was, at keeping her sister in check, but she didn’t sound as if she was up to coping with much right now. German not English was her mother tongue and her intonation and the slight disorder of her sentences were more pronounced when she was tired.

  “Rachael sent me the phone number,” I said, “but not the address.”

  “Address, ah yes, well we’re going to be near the South Downs.”

  “Bit vague. Any chance of something more specific?”

  “Oh, Stella, a lovely place, away from so much traffic, there’s space, a lot of space. Ideal for what we need. One moment, I have it here.”

  I was at my desk in the office and waited while there was a lot of scrabbling at the other end of the phone.

  “It’s just an hour or two, not too far.” Ruth couldn’t read me that well over the phone but didn’t have to, she knew what I was thinking - I didn’t see them that often and when I did, it was usually because I was being hauled into situations I didn’t want to be hauled into. But when I needed them, they’d always pitched up, a comfortingly capable cavalry riding to the rescue. I’d felt safer, knowing they were near.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “This can’t be it?” David wound down his window and leaned out, contemplating the closed high gates in front of which we’d pulled up; “you must have taken down the wrong address.”

  “No, look!” A metal plaque was fixed to one of the broad, high posts, on which the gates were mounted. “This is right; The Oaks.” There was a small gap between the post and the almost as high privet hedge which stretched, densely green either side of the gates and as far down the lane as I could see. I peered through to a vast swathe of manicured lawn, fronting an impressively eccentric, red-brick, gabled and towered building. It certainly looked nothing like a private home.

  “Their place must be further down this road,” David was studying the A-Z, “the name’s just a coincidence.”

  “No,” I said, “this is it.”

  “How can ... ?” I raised an eyebrow at him, “OK, silly me,” he muttered as I pulled down hard on the cast iron ring which should raise the bar holding the gates closed. It didn’t b
udge but as I turned, I saw a metal panel beneath the house name. There was a button so I pressed it and this time, the iron ring, warm in my hand from the late September sun moved smoothly downwards. Released, both gates swung silently open, I joined David back in the car and we headed down the drive.

  “Blimey!” he said, looking around. He wasn’t wrong, my glimpse through the hedge gap hadn’t given any indication of the size of the building in front of us. Now, fronted and enclosed by what seemed like acres of flower-edged, neatly mown lawns, much of the red-brick had been taken over by Virginia Creeper at its peak. The ivy blazing in the sun, framed windows of different sizes which in turn were reflecting back the light, so there was plenty of sparkle and glow. Extending to either side of an impressive arched portico; the building seemed to have a surfeit of chimneys as well as, at odd intervals and for no apparent reason several, rounded crenelated towers.

  “What is this place?” David said, more to himself than me. I actually had no idea but I had no doubts as to who was there; not because of anything I could hear, more because of what I couldn’t. In my world, noise is a constant; been so all my life. I have mental blinds to shut out the shouting, but that doesn’t switch it off completely, although when a multitude of thoughts are criss-crossing and intertwined, they tend to become just one inaudible hum, unless I focus specifically on an individual. But here, there was genuine silence, powerful shielding. We were so in the right place!

  “Must be worth a fortune,” said David, “look at these grounds.” He nodded his head towards the lawns, sweeping smoothly in wide manicured arcs, before giving way to wooded areas where trees still clung to late autumn splendour. “I thought they were teachers, your Ruth and Rachel, how on earth could they buy something like this?”

  “Ruth dabbles on the Stock Exchange,” I said, revelling in the silence, reluctant to break it.

  “Really?”

  “Takes herself out regularly for lunch at City restaurants, the ones popular with financial movers and shakers. Let’s just say, she picks up more tips than the waiters.”

  “Isn’t that insider trading – and illegal?”

  “Probably, but who’s going to worry about a middle-aged lady treating herself to a small sweet sherry whilst delicately dissecting a Dover sole?” She’d taken me with her once, so I knew she was certainly of no concern to any of the raucous traders at surrounding tables; self-congratulating, back-slapping and smugly certain of planned and profitable decisions. By the time they’d made their loud and slightly unsteady way back to their desks to settle in front of figures flowing across monitors, Ruth would have paid her bill, fluttered anxiously with gloves, handbag and umbrella, thanked the waiter for holding the door, found a phone box and suggested to her broker that selling these shares swiftly and buying plenty of those, might be a good move just now.

  “And nobody’s ever asked questions?” David slid the car to a stop under the elaborately fret-worked and arched carriage porch just in time to avoid the first fat drops of rain that were starting to fall.

  “Why would they?” I opened the car door and sighed with pleasure, the silence was so seductive, even the twisting apprehension I’d been feeling, seemed to quieten a little.

  “D’you want me to stay in the car?”

  “Don’t be silly, they’ll be glad to see you,” I said, although we both had doubts that was true. There’d been a couple of occasions in the recent past when David had found himself involved with Rachel, Ruth and the others, albeit under fraught circumstances. He’d accepted, with admirable equanimity my oddities and theirs, and coped by adopting the attitude of a non-French speaking person stuck in Paris; politely and patiently uncomprehending until someone chose to tell him what was going on.

  I utilised the iron door-knocker gripped firmly between the teeth of a lion who could have been snarling; I chose to think he was smiling. After a moment, the door was swung open by a well-upholstered, mid-fifties individual in a spotless nurses cap and an apron so starched it could have answered the door on its own.

  “Yes?” she said, and I knew her immediately; large, sensibly rubber-soled feet planted slightly apart, cap immovably anchored with two hair clips, she wasn’t snarling, but she wasn’t smiling either.

  “Mrs Millsop?”

  “Matron,” she corrected. She looked me up and down and wasn’t impressed, “Do I know you?”

  “No, no you don’t but I know you because of Glory…” I paused. Glory’s near-lethal time in the tender care of Dr Dreck was some years ago now, but I’d relived every vivid, hair-raising moment as she later poured the chain of events into my head. Her experiences were unforgettably mine now too.

  “You have an appointment? Name please?” This was not a woman who let the grass grow.

  “I’m Stella Gold.” it was the first time I’d used my married name and I grinned, feeling David doing the same behind me. Mrs Millsop didn’t return my smile. As a welcoming committee she was a dead loss. “Actually,” I said, “it’s Ruth and Rachael I’ve come to see.”

  “You mean Miss Peacock and Miss Peacock?.” She frowned, obviously not big on informality. “I’ll ask again, do you have an appointment?”

  “Not exactly but they’re expecting us some time this morning.” Mrs Millsop paused long enough to let us know who was in charge and that ‘some time’ didn’t really cut it appointment-wise, before stepping back and gesturing us in. She indicated a couple of chairs either side of a console table against the wall, on which was an exuberantly over flower-filled vase

  “Would you mind waiting there?” a request in the shape of an order. She saw us seated, at the same time wedging a couple of lush overhanging blooms firmly back down into the vase, the lavishness of the display didn’t suit her sense of order. “I’ll let them know you’re here. Parents are you?”

  “Not yet,” I said with another grin that she didn’t return. “I didn’t realise this was a school.” I added. She didn’t bother answering because a door, farther down the hall was suddenly flung open, crashing noisily back against the wall, where dents and chipped paint bore testimony to similar encounters. Around ten children of assorted size and state of messiness spilled out of the room. Barrelling past at speed, the surge parted automatically either side of Matron Millsop, except for one small boy, owlish in thick-lensed, blue-wired National Health glasses who hit her amidships.

  She expelled a pained ‘Oof’ as he bounced off.

  “How many times Iggy?” she stooped to pull him up from the floor where he’d landed, “no running in the corridors.” Setting him firmly on his feet, she held on long enough to try and smooth straight brown hair which looked like it’d been dragged through several hedges. He wriggled free, then paused just long enough to put both arms round her – or as far as they could reach - and give her a quick hug.

  “Don’t you try and soft soap me, m’lad,” she snapped, straightening her apron but there was affection behind the snap. I’d opened up as we sat down, but inside the building where there should have been thinking aplenty, the smooth silence told me more. The next minute my head was flooding with peppermint green and Rachael emerged from the room the kids had just left, a battered brown leather portfolio tucked under one arm.

  “Thank you Matron,” she said, and indicated with a head tilt and no pause in pace that we should follow her.

  “Hello to you too!” muttered David behind me, as we headed at speed up a wide staircase at the far end of the hall. She was as angular as ever, in trade-mark crisp white shirt tucked into a belted, below-the-knee pleated skirt, although today she’d pushed the boat out replacing the usual black with a similar number in grey. I was amused as she moved swiftly ahead, to see a small, four-finger mark in blue paint on the shoulder of the shirt. Despite all appearance to the contrary and her peppery, impatient persona, the children she worked with knew instinctively where to turn and I knew, as they did, a brisk, business-like hug from Rachael, for all its brevity and because of its rarity, could ease a gre
at deal of hurt.

  At the top of the stairs we followed her along a carpeted landing, then through an open door which took us up a shorter flight to a spacious circular landing, light pouring through an impressive floor to ceiling curved window, overlooking and echoing the curve of the front lawns below. We were in one of the building’s round towers and purple-deep lavender told me in which room Ruth waited.

  Rachael moved a telephone on the hall table aside, making room to put the portfolio down before she turned to face us. I’d known her over half my life now and at fifty or thereabouts, she hadn’t changed much from our initial, indescribably frustrating encounter on the No. 113 bus to Hendon Central, although as she moved forward, light revealed new, bruised shadows beneath her eyes. The uncompromising silver-grey bob cut to just below her ears was as it had always been, widow-peaked and brushed severely back from the pale-skinned high forehead. Over half-moon spectacles, low on an aquiline nose, she looked me up and down for a moment, deep hazel eyes, the only warmth and colour in her thin face.

  “Right,” she said, “you obviously felt it was important, so I suppose we’d better find out what it is you want to talk about.” Crisp, brisk and authoritative, I knew David wouldn’t approve the lack of normal pleasantries, the back and forth of mainly meaningless platitudes which normally oil the wheels of communication, but it wasn’t necessary for her to ask how I was, she’d swept through my defences immediately, so she knew. Her ability to wade into my head at will had long been a bone of contention between us.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” I said.

  “Shield better and I wouldn’t be able to. Come along now, quicker you’re in, quicker you can be on your way.” She led the way down the hall, opened a door, ushered us in and added, “I’m sure you didn’t schedule in a visit to us, did you, when making honeymoon plans, er… ?”

  “David,” I supplied shortly. She knew of course, and she knew I knew she knew, but she was never averse to winding up anyone she could.