by Beth Corby
Explain! Tell me why you kissed me. Tell me why you broke it off. Come on!
Taking my tea, I sip it, burning my tongue. The pain makes my anger swell into something that wants to rear up and shout and scream.
And still Alec says nothing. I blow on my tea, willing it to cool down so that I can drink it and be on the move. I finally drink it even though it’s scalding my throat. I wordlessly hand him my cup, and suddenly I’m furious. How dare he! You can’t kiss someone like that, then pretend it never happened!
I glance at him, but he looks so wretched that my anger shies away, embarrassed, and canters off.
How did we end up at this point? I didn’t even like him a few days ago. He’s been rude and condescending, judgemental and superior – not to mention downright insulting. How can I even be interested? And it’s certainly not a good idea when we’ve got all these tasks to do. One thing’s for sure: it’s going to be awkward as hell after this. I glance at Alec, but he’s just staring through the windscreen. I start the engine and go to pull out of the empty lay-by, but I stall. Normally he’d say something sarcastic, but he says nothing, which, if anything, is worse. I close my eyes to hold back the tears. I don’t even look at him as I get the car properly into gear and start the drive back.
Chapter 13
To say I’m tense as we pull in through the gates of The Laurels is an understatement. Alec hasn’t said a word the whole way back, but as we emerge into the parking area and see a chauffeur-driven Mercedes waiting by the front door, I glance at him. His eyes meet mine, but he’s clearly as mystified as I am.
I park up and we get out, avoiding each other’s eyes again. We skirt our way around the Mercedes to find Mrs Crumpton waiting for us in the hall. She’s looking anxious, a worrying sign from someone who would normally make a kraken quail.
‘Prepare yourself – the Devil’s in the drawin’ room,’ she whispers. ‘Show no fear,’ she adds, and stalks off to the kitchen.
‘The Devil?’ I ask Alec, tendering a tentative truce.
He shakes his head. ‘No idea,’ he says, ‘but I’ve never seen Mrs C rattled before.’
We head cautiously to the drawing room and as we cross the threshold, I stop short. Sat in an armchair, with tea laid out in front of her, is the woman who spat in Donald’s grave. She’s wearing the same shade of pink as at the funeral, and a small, white, bug-eyed dog nestles on her knee, staring up at me.
‘Ah,’ she says. Her beady eyes pass across every detail of our shabby appearance, wet swimming costume outlines and all.
‘Can we help you?’ asks Alec politely.
‘Let’s hope so,’ says the woman, her tone indicating we’d better. ‘Tell me whom I am addressing?’ Wow. Anyone that determined to use the word ‘whom’ is unlikely to be a friend of mine.
‘I am Alec, Donald’s PA, and this is Hannah, Donald’s great-niece. And you are . . .?’
‘Mrs Jennings.’ She regards us glassily, purposefully not granting us lesser mortals her first name. ‘Donald must have mentioned me.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ says Alec, matching her condescension blow for blow.
‘Really?’ She seems a little disappointed. Her attention shifts to me. ‘As his only relation present, I’m assuming you are Donald’s heir?’
‘Just one of many,’ I say quickly.
‘How so? Who is the main benefactor?’ Her eyes return to Alec, but neither of us has an easy answer.
‘A charity?’ I hazard.
She sighs, irritated. ‘Who gets the house? Who gets his money?’ she demands.
I open my mouth to say that I don’t know, but Alec interrupts. ‘I’m not sure I see how that’s any of your business.’
Mrs Jennings smiles like a cobra about to strike. ‘No, I don’t suppose you do . . . yet. But let’s just say it is about to become abundantly clear. You see, Donald owes me.’
‘Then apply to his solicitor. I can give you his number—’
She waves her hand dismissively. ‘He owes me a greater debt than money, and has done for many years.’ She strokes her small dog absently, reminding me of a Bond villain. ‘And you are going to make sure I am repaid.’
‘What kind of debt?’ I ask. I know curiosity killed the cat, but I can’t help myself.
Mrs Jennings focuses on me, her mouth pinching at the corners. ‘A long time ago Donald let me down; he sabotaged my plans regarding an event that was very dear to my heart and as a result ruined my social standing.’ She pauses, her jaw clenching in anger momentarily before she continues. ‘It was totally inexcusable and I’m not the forgiving type. An eye for an eye seems a most excellent policy to me, so I’m here for my “eye”.’
God, I hope she doesn’t mean literally, because I wouldn’t put it past her to have a pantry filled with jars of eyes all staring in different directions. I suppress a shudder.
‘How, exactly, are you hoping to retrieve this “eye”?’ Alec asks, sounding formidable, but I’m unable to look away from Mrs Jennings.
‘He ruined my plans. I’m sure he has plans concerning his last wishes, and I’m here to make sure they are just as ruined as mine were. Fair’s fair,’ she says.
‘What makes you think we’ll let you undermine everything he’s worked for?’ asks Alec.
Her beady eyes hone in on him. ‘You won’t have much choice. You see, I know things,’ she says simply. ‘A lot of things . . .’ she looks pointedly at me ‘. . . about Donald.’
‘What kind of things?’ I ask, hideously fascinated, and immediately wish I hadn’t.
‘Seedy secrets, hideous acts, terrible truths; things you wouldn’t want made public. There’d be quite a scandal, I assure you. So let’s just agree that you should refuse all involvement with Donald’s estate, and likewise any friends and family who’ve been favoured, and we’ll say no more about it.’
‘And if we don’t?’ Alec’s expression is becoming more dangerous by the second.
‘I’ll contact the tabloids.’
‘Why would they even care?’ I ask, trying to share a disbelieving look with Alec, but he’s fixed on Mrs Jennings.
‘It’s not always what you know that buries your reputation, but rather who you know. Did you know that Donald was once involved with the wife of a prestigious member of parliament? You’d know her name if I told you and I can assure you that the merest hint of a scandal involving either her or her husband would have the paparazzi slavering.’
‘So you’re blackmailing us?’ I ask tentatively.
‘Of course!’ She laughs, amazed at my dim-wittedness. ‘An eye for an eye, I said. Oh, you didn’t think Donald was above using blackmail, did you? That’s so sweet! You’ve quite made my day. But how do you think he kept me quiet all these years – by asking nicely?’ She purses her lips, shaking her head at my naivety. ‘Your problem is that, now he’s dead, you have no idea what leverage he used or the damage I’m capable of causing. That leaves you with two options: reject Donald’s will, or accept the consequences.’ She takes a sip of her tea, watching me closely.
‘But what are you threatening to reveal, exactly?’ I ask. ‘Surely you can tell us that?’
Mrs Jennings laughs. ‘Why should I? It’ll be far more interesting for you to find out along the way.’
‘But you could be making all this up?’
‘I could be,’ she agrees. ‘But I have evidence, witnesses, times and dates. This isn’t an idle threat.’ She gets up with relative ease, despite her age and the dog in her arms. ‘I’ll leave you to think about it, but don’t take too long. I might get bored waiting. I’ll show myself out,’ and after a last self-satisfied smile, she strides out without looking back.
Alec and I stare at each other, the kiss not forgotten, but temporarily overshadowed by Mrs Jennings’ threats.
‘Is she serious?’ I splutter as the front door bangs shut. ‘She seems serious. And what was all that about Donald’s secrets?’
Alec shakes his head slowly. ‘I have no idea.
Donald and I didn’t talk about the past.’
I stare at him. ‘Why not?’
A flash of irritation sparks in his eyes. ‘Look, we just didn’t, OK? I think we both had things we didn’t want to revisit, and we respected each other’s privacy.’
Alec glowers moodily, propping his chin on his hand like Rodin’s Thinker. I frown, feeling perhaps a little more annoyed than is fair. But honestly, if they had been a bit more open with each other, or if Alec had perhaps shown a bit more interest, we might know what we’re dealing with.
‘So what do we have to go on?’ I ask, trying to keep the impatience out of my voice.
Alec shrugs. ‘Donald’s letters? Isn’t he gradually unveiling his past?’
I bite my thumbnail anxiously, suspecting they might prove to be a dead end considering he wouldn’t even discuss this stuff with Alec. ‘You really think he’ll tell me, when he hasn’t told you?’
‘Maybe not. What about Mr Sanderson?’
‘The solicitor?’ I ask. ‘You think Donald might have told him?’ It seems unlikely to me.
‘There’s only one way to find out.’ Alec checks his watch. ‘He should still be in his office. I’ll call him and then get you the next letter.’
‘I suppose Donald might have left a letter to be fired off in Mrs Jennings’ direction, like he did with Nicholas?’ I smirk at the memory of Donald’s blistering put-downs. ‘It would be another chance for Donald to tell someone what he thought of them.’
‘Yes,’ agrees Alec without amusement, demonstrating all too clearly, as if I needed the reminder, that our carefree easiness is a thing of the past. Something has definitely broken between us.
Alec takes out his mobile and selects Mr Sanderson’s number, his eyes meeting mine coldly, and despite wanting to know what Mr Sanderson says, I realise I can’t bear to be around Alec right now. I follow the sounds of roughly handled crockery to the kitchen.
Mrs Crumpton frowns at me. ‘She gone?’
‘For now.’ I blow out a sigh and rub my face anxiously.
‘Tea?’ she asks.
‘Please.’
She nods at the table and I sink down onto a chair. I feel as beaten as a blacksmith’s anvil and I wince as, after pouring hot water in the teapot, Mrs Crumpton clanks the kettle down onto a cast-iron trivet.
‘Complications,’ she says, shaking her head resignedly. ‘I knew, when ‘e started on all this, there’d be complications. I told ‘im,’ she says, gesturing at the ceiling.
She collects some mugs and pours the tea, and I wrap my hands around the mug she nudges towards me. I’m completely exhausted. ‘Mr Sanderson will know what to do,’ I say.
Mrs Crumpton gives me a world-weary smile and sits down. ‘I doubt it, but whatever happens, we can’t let Donald down.’
‘We won’t,’ I promise automatically. Though, with Mrs Jennings in the mix . . . We sit in worried silence, sipping our tea. ‘I heard Alec playing the guitar last night,’ I say to fill the silence.
‘Did you?’ Mrs Crumpton nods her head thoughtfully. ‘I thought ‘e was lookin’ better.’ She pats my hand and gives me a smile. ‘Keep doin’ what you’re doin’,’ she advises, but before I can ask what she means, Alec comes in with an expression that doesn’t inspire confidence, and she withdraws her hand.
‘Any tea left?’ he asks, and Mrs Crumpton pours him a mug before heading off purposefully with a vacuum cleaner.
‘Mr Sanderson is worried,’ says Alec, turning his mug around by the handle. ‘He’s concerned that we don’t know anything about Donald’s past or what Mrs Jennings is threatening. He says that, until she makes her threats more explicit, there’s very little he can do, but advised we look into Donald’s history.’ His voice is stiff – he clearly wants to be talking to me as little as I do to him.
‘So, how do we find out what happened?’ I ask, though I’m no longer sure I want to know.
Alec looks down at his tea. ‘I’m not sure. Might your grandmother know?’
‘Grandma Betty? I asked Mum about their relationship after we visited here in February and she said Grandma Betty and Uncle Donald stopped speaking after he left home. Beyond maintaining how terrible he was, seeing him at a funeral and returning the generous cheques he sent for their parents – which was how she got the idea he was rich and found out he was in London from the postmark – she had nothing to do with him until we all came here. She probably knows less than we do.’
‘Well, Mr Sanderson wants us to find out as much as we can.’ Alec hesitates. ‘He also said you can stop doing the tasks while we sort this out. He said you’ve been given plenty of time to complete them—’
‘But what if Donald’s letters tell us what we need to know?’
‘I said that, but Mr Sanderson said it isn’t fair to expect you to continue when your reward is at stake, which I suppose it true.’
I sip my tea, contemplating Mrs Crumpton’s ‘we can’t let Donald down’, and Donald’s rant in his first letter about how he went to a lot of trouble over arranging the tasks. I have to carry on, and I want to carry on, even if I am a little worried about what I might find out.
‘Donald wanted me to do the tasks, so I’ll do them.’
Alec raises an eyebrow. ‘Even if there isn’t a big fat prize at the end?’
Not this again. I press my lips together and close my eyes for a second to stop myself swearing at him. ‘Haven’t we spent enough time together for you to realise I’m not a mercenary bitch? I’m here because I liked him and I want to find out more about him.’ Alec’s expression doesn’t lighten. ‘Doing the tasks is what’s important to me. Please try to accept that.’
‘Good to know,’ he says coldly, sounding unconvinced. ‘I’ll get you the next letter, then. And I’ll check Donald’s study, just in case there’s something in there that can enlighten us, though I doubt it.’ He walks out, and returns a few minutes later with Donald’s letter. Without a word, he places it in front of me and heads off to the study. I pour myself another mug of tea and take it into the drawing room. Settling into an armchair and, trying not to let the hurt take over, I begin to read.
My Dearest Hannah,
This letter will be slightly different to my previous ones, but I am determined to give you a fair depiction of myself – both the good and the bad. Never an easy undertaking, but I must do it; in sickness and in health and all that. So, where do I begin?
I’m sure you saw the difference between swimming on a hot summer’s day and a rainy one – unless I was lucky and outlived my doctor’s predictions, in which case you may have had to brave the swim in autumn or even winter. Perhaps you swam in the snow in a wetsuit? I have never done that and perversely now want to. Perhaps I can persuade Alec to shave the freezer and shake the crystals over my bath?
I digress. I was hoping you’d see how weather can change all things. I expect that is why so many people emigrate. My message is not to emigrate, but to feel free to enjoy life, no matter what the weather, as you may encounter unexpected delights even in the least promising of circumstances.
I picture the heron and its careful watch on the water, almost feeling the water lapping around me, and then Alec pulling me close, his hands on my face, then one arm circling my waist, his other pressed between my shoulder blades. The heat and surprise of Alec’s lips on mine as the wind swirls the trees. Even now, just the thought of it makes me light-headed. It’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever experienced outside of a book – and then it all fell apart and I’ve no idea why. I close my eyes for a moment, then read on.
There is only one rule – keep ‘sense’ as your watchword. If you don’t, things can go awry very quickly.
In the summer of 1955, my friends and I swam almost every day. In those days our parents didn’t expect to see us between breakfast and supper, and we would take our towels and sandwiches and head for the river. We swam, dived, raced and made dams and rafts. We would jump in from the bank or off trees, and one place had an excelle
nt high rock over a deep pool that swallowed you whole and spat you out in bubbles. Wind, rain or shine, we swam until we were pruny and cold, then took shelter or lay in the sun to eat mangled sandwiches. Every day was different and we loved it, or at least we did until the accident.
One night there was a great storm and a lot of rain fell. The rain soon stopped, but the water kept coming down from the hills and the river became brown and swollen as it tore through our village, carrying much debris with it. My friends and I stood on the bridge to watch the torn leaves and branches course under its single arch. We knew the river was too dangerous to swim in, but as we leaned over the low wall we boasted that we could do it if we wanted to. We told each other that if we swam on a diagonal upstream we could easily make it across to the far side. We said it with such confidence. We postured, we pushed each other, we bragged about how good we were at swimming . . . Bravado hung around us like a fog, but none of us ever meant it for even a second.
The trouble was, we were not the only ones listening to our inflated talk that day. There was a boy called Billy. He was a year younger than us and, being large and a bit of an oddball, had few friends. He trailed after us, pretending to be part of our gang, hankering after our attention and working on our trademark swagger. We had long ago lost interest in him, but we always spoke just a little louder when he was around, perhaps to make ourselves feel bigger, or maybe just to put him in his place – I’m not sure which. He sauntered up to us. ‘I could swim in that river,’ he said. ‘No, you couldn’t,’ jeered one of my friends. ‘You’re too small,’ said another. ‘You’d be an idiot to try,’ I said, and we laughed, thinking no more about it.
Later that day, Billy went missing. The alarm went up that evening and the adults mounted a search. It was early the next morning that they found his body downstream, tangled in the branches of a fallen tree.
No one knew how he came to be in the river. There were no witnesses to him entering the water, but he was in his swimming shorts when they found him, which made me start to wonder – was it because of us? Was he trying to impress us? Was he attempting to join our gang? Did our comments egg him on? Or was he stupid enough all by himself, because surely he should have had the sense to stay out of the water?
