by Agatha Frost
“Did it?” Alan asked as he sat across from her. “Help, I mean?”
“I’m not sure.” Claire gave them one last look before turning back to her stickers and saying in her mother’s direction, “When did Em ever want to take over the café?”
“Oh, I think you were still a little girl when they had their big bust-up.” Janet sprayed bleach against the backsplash tiles. After the candles, the scent was extra horrid. “Jane groomed Emma to take over the café from the second she was born, apparently. She worked weekends from quite a young age, and she went fulltime nearly the same day she left school. It was always obvious her heart wasn’t really in it. Even when she looked, well, normal, we all knew Emma was a wild child.”
“So, what happened?” Claire asked, so captivated by the story, she finally had another jar to add to the rejects bin. “How did she leave?”
“Dramatically.” Alan picked up the tale. “We didn’t see it, but the gossip at the time was that she ripped off her apron, slapped her mother, and never stepped foot in the place again.”
When Claire thought back, she couldn’t recall ever seeing Em in the café.
“And the woman has been loopy ever since!” Janet scrubbed at the already shiny tiles with a yellow sponge. “And now she’s gone and shaved her head. Look how that worked out for Sinéad O’Connor.”
“Or Britney,” Claire added.
“Who, dear?”
“Britney Spears?”
“Did you go to school with her?”
Claire arched a brow, unsure if her mother was joking. Scarily, she didn’t seem to be. Claire wondered if her mother was how middle class a person had to be for all the pop culture of the last twenty years to pass them by.
“It doesn’t matter,” Claire said quickly. “So, Em and Jane have never seen eye to eye?”
“If each were an eye in the same head,” Janet said, pausing to attack the tiles with more bleach, “they’d be as bog-eyed as your cousin, Bill.”
“They never hated each other, mind,” Alan added, pulling off a fresh sticker and handing it to Claire. “From what I could gather, Em was always patient and forgiving with her mother, but Jane could never accept that her daughter wasn’t going to carry on her legacy.”
“Jane only got bitterer the more her retirement age was in her rear-view mirror,” Janet said, now at the sink wringing out the sponge. “Em was always too busy meditating under a tree, like that little green man from Star Wars. She should have grown up and taken the burden of the tearoom off her mother’s shoulders like anyone else would have done.”
“The decision was Em’s to make,” Claire said, dismayed by her mother’s dated views. “She’s a free spirit. No one owes their parents their whole lives, Mother.”
“Hmmm.” Janet’s lips pursed. “It’s not natural, is it, though?”
Claire braced herself. “What’s not natural?”
“A bald woman!” Janet’s hand rested on the bouncy blow-out she tended to twice weekly. “A bald woman who shaves her head and not her armpits.”
“Mother . . .” Claire’s tone was firm. “I happen to like how Em looks, and that’s not the point. There’s more to someone than their appearance.”
“I’m only saying.” Janet pursed her lips, pausing as though she’d finished, only to add, “You know what they say about Emma Bridges. Don’t wave at her unless you’re happy for her to wave back.”
“Nobody says that, dear,” Alan said with a belly laugh.
“I say that.” She continued scrubbing the tiles. “Em is an . . . alternative woman. Yes, I’ll leave it at that.”
“Why stop now?” Claire said for her father’s ears. “It’s not like you to sit on the fence.”
While Janet finished cleaning the already spotless kitchen, Claire and Alan made short work of sticking on the rest of the labels. After securing the candles in bubble wrap, she packed them into another box. Brown tape sealed the top before she scribbled ‘Vanilla Box 3’ on the side with a black marker. Hoisting the box up with her knee, she carried it to the stairs and stacked it atop another, filled with just as many finished jars. If she ever got to open her shop, she wanted to have enough vanilla candles to keep the stock levels up; she was confident they’d be a bestseller.
“Did you say ‘Emma Bridges’?” Claire asked as she returned to the kitchen. She leaned on the breakfast bar instead of sitting at the table. “Not Emma Brindle like her mum?”
“Jane Jones became Jane Bridges who became Jane Brindle,” Alan called as he picked up the morning’s national paper to continue the crossword. “Emma was a product of Jane’s first marriage, to Ray Bridges.”
“Ray Bridges?” Claire almost choked on the name. “As in, the same Ray Bridges from all your police stories?”
Alan smiled as he carefully wrote in one of the words on the puzzle. “The very same.”
Ray’s reputation preceded him. Claire could quickly and easily compile a list of his criminal schemes over the years – and it wasn’t a short one. Illegal gambling, illegal fight clubs, illegal money lending, and everything illegal in between. She couldn’t believe Em and Jane were connected to such a locally notorious man.
“Which is why I think Emma’s whole image is a contrived act!” Janet punctuated her final words with two squirts of bleach onto the stainless-steel hob. “You don’t have a thug of a father like Ray Bridges and a mother as plain as Jane and end up as Yoko Ono.”
“Did you go to school with her?” Claire asked.
“Don’t get smart, Claire.” Janet pointed the spray bottle at her, one hand on her hip. “You know full well who I meant.”
“I know, I just couldn’t resist.” Claire filled a glass with water at the sink, which reminded her of Colin and then the woman they’d bumped into meeting him. “Does the name Fiona Brindle ring a bell? She’s an estate agent where Sally works.”
“She’s a fellow Women’s Institute member,” Janet responded instantly. “Thinks she makes the best jam, but it’s not a patch on Mrs Knowles’s raspberry conserve, and everyone knows it but her. And she’s always trying to sell us essential oils!”
“Is she any relation to Jane?”
“She was,” Alan answered. “Fiona’s father, Eric, was Jane’s second husband. You’ll probably remember him.”
Claire hadn’t thought about Eric in years, but hearing his name pushed his existence to the forefront of her mind. She was about to ask where he’d gone, but the memory sprang loose.
“He went missing in 2013,” Alan said, finally looking up from his crossword only to stare straight ahead through the black cherry candles on the sideboard and into the living room. “Vanished off the face of the planet. I wasn’t the DI on the case, but I still don’t feel right that we never solved that one.”
“You couldn’t solve them all, dear,” Janet said, appearing over the counter with a bucket and a pair of rubber gloves.
“He was nice enough,” Alan added with a shrug. “We’d sometimes have a pint of homebrew at the pub if our paths crossed. He seemed like a nice, ordinary chap.”
“They met online,” Janet pointed out. “I remember it clear as day. About ten years ago, maybe a bit more, Jane came into the post office to tell me she’d joined a website and met a man. I was convinced she was off to meet a serial killer, but next thing we all knew, she was engaged to this Eric chap. Seemed to go as quickly as he came. He barely left an impression on me. I’m not surprised everyone forgot about him so quickly.”
“Ah!” Alan held his finger up. “I have to correct you there, dear. I never forgot, and Fiona, his daughter, never stopped looking for him. Right up until I retired, she regularly visited the station with her own evidence, usually all twisted to fit her narrative that her father’s vanishing act involved Jane and, or Ray.”
“How anyone could think Jane was involved, I’ll never know.” Janet heaved the bucket out of the sink. “Ray, on the other hand, I could believe. He’s always been a nasty piece of work. I hear
d Jane didn’t realise what kind of man she’d married until it was too late.”
“We questioned him,” Alan said, rubbing his glasses against his shirt edge. “We were worried the village would riot if we didn’t, but aside from gossip, we never had anything on him. There was nothing on anyone. The case went cold, but Fiona never let it go.”
“I’m off to clean the front windows,” Janet proclaimed, carrying the bucket across the kitchen. “They need doing.”
“The window cleaner only came on Friday,” Alan flipped the paper over and read the front. “It’s Tuesday, dear.”
“It rained yesterday!” Janet called over her shoulder as she continued down the hall. “You know I can’t stand the watermarks. It won’t take me two minutes.”
Before Claire could think of a joke about her mother’s over-the-top cleaning routine to add, she glanced at the black cherry candles and realised she’d created them for the same reason her mother was impulsively cleaning an already spotless house: stress.
“I want you to be careful, little one,” Alan said softly as he rose and walked towards her. His cane thumped gently with every other step. “Don’t throw yourself into any dangerous situations.”
“I didn’t last time.” Claire kissed him on the cheek. “Dad?”
“Hmmm?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
Alan pulled open the downstairs bathroom door under the stairs. He locked himself inside.
“Give me a second, love,” he called. “I’m bursting.”
Claire wasn’t sure if he’d really been on his way to the bathroom or if he’d sensed she was about to ask if he’d heard from Uncle Pat. Before she could wonder if she should linger and pluck up the courage to ask, a text message from Ryan made her decision for her.
Smiling at the single word message, ‘Drink?’, she kicked off her slippers and changed into her trainers. After grabbing her denim jacket from the back of the sofa in the otherwise immaculate sitting room, she headed through the front door without a second thought.
Pausing on the doorstep before setting off down the lane to the village, Claire typed out ‘On my way xx’. She deleted the ‘xx’, replacing it with ‘x’, before finally sending ‘On my way (:’; she regretted the smiley face instantly.
“What am I?” she whispered to her phone. “Twelve?”
“No,” her mother said across the garden, startling Claire. “But you act like it sometimes.”
“Bloody hell, Mother!” Claire stuffed her phone in her pocket, heart beating as she hurried down the garden path. “Next time, clear your throat like a normal person.”
“Where are you going?” Janet called after her. “We’re having steak and chips at five.”
“Off for a drink with Ryan.” She waved over her shoulder. “I’ll be back for dinner.”
“So, that’s why you were smiling.”
Claire quickened her pace, pretending not to hear her mother. She was smiling, though; she had yet to turn down one of Ryan’s spontaneous invitations.
Chapter Six
Claire tossed her head back and laughed. The other patrons in the pub sent slantwise glances her way. She quickly forced the laughter down, containing it to a giggle. The more she fought it, though, the worse it grew, eventually pushing through her tight lips as an even louder cackle..
“I’m so sorry, everyone!” Claire held up a hand, the other on her lips, trying to contain the laugh creeping up her throat. “No disrespect.”
A round of sighs and tuts echoed around the busy pub as people returned to their pints, pies, and papers. She felt too tipsy given the current height of the sun, but three pints of Hesketh Homebrew with Ryan had that effect on her.
“And then the trellis fell right off the wall with you still attached to it!” Ryan continued the story that had made her laugh so loudly in the first place. “I stood in my garden and watched it happen in slow motion. You fell like a tree. Oh, I wish I’d had a camera!”
“It hurt!”
“Your face.”
“I fell right on my back!”
“Your mother’s face.” Ryan wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. He, too, seemed to struggle to contain his laughter. “I think she woke up the whole cul-de-sac with her screaming.”
“She thought I was dead!”
“One of Mrs Beaton’s cats came along and sniffed you, and you shot straight upright!” Ryan paused to have another sip of his almost-drained pint. “How old were we?”
“Fourteen.” Claire punched him in the arm. “And if I remember correctly, you left me to it!”
“I didn’t want to get grounded too.”
“She gave me two months!” Claire sipped her drink. “That was the first and last time I let you convince me to sneak to a party. We didn’t have a clue who anyone was.”
Ryan shrugged, still smiling. “I wanted to be one of the cool kids for a night. Looking back, we were the cool kids. I think we were having more fun than anyone.”
Claire couldn’t disagree. Growing up next door to Ryan forged a bond between them like nothing else could. Their friendship had grown from playing in the garden as toddlers to sneaking to parties through those same gardens as teenagers.
If Ryan hadn’t left Northash at eighteen to live with, and eventually marry, a Spanish girl he fell in love with while on holiday, Claire didn’t doubt they would have remained friends.
She might even have got around to telling him that she loved him.
Eventually.
“One good thing came from that,” Claire said, draining her pint. “My mum finally gave me a key. She was too bothered about the neighbours seeing me sneak in and out. How old were you when your mum gave you one?”
Ryan smiled at the mention of his mother. While some people didn’t like speaking of their deceased relatives, Claire had noticed Ryan seemed to love it when she brought his mother into the conversation. Claire couldn’t help it; Pauline was the best neighbour and friend’s mother anyone could have had.
“I think I always had one.” He also drained his pint. “Now that I’m a parent looking back, she did a great job. She always made me feel like she trusted me.”
“Whatever technique that is, my mother did the opposite.” Claire’s finger circled the rim of the empty pint glass, her gaze going to an opening at the bar. “Another? On me this time.”
“When did you say you had to be back for steak and chips?”
Claire pulled her phone from her pocket and unlocked it; the time shone brightly up at her.
“Bugger.” She showed Ryan her phone. “Ten minutes ago, which means I’m already about forty minutes late in her book.”
“If you get on my back, I can run you home.” Ryan slapped his muscular legs, in jeans for once, courtesy of a rare day off from the gym. “I’m a pretty fast runner these days.”
“And I’m a heavy lump these days.”
“Don’t be silly.” Ryan slapped her arm, his face twisting as though she’d insulted him. “You look the same as you always did, just with shorter hair. Suits you by the way.”
“You need to give my mother lessons on giving compliments,” she said as she shimmied out from behind the table. “She tried to say the same thing, but let’s just say your version didn’t make me feel quite so bad as hers.”
“Your mother reminds me of my Amelia,” Ryan said, easing out the other way along the row. “She’s not even ten, and she already has no filter. Says whatever’s on her mind. It’s driving Agnes crazy.”
As much as talking about old times over a pint or three made it easier to open up and talk to Ryan, the mention of his two children reminded her of their age and how much had changed in the years they hadn’t spoken.
“Speaking of Agnes,” Claire said, pausing to put her denim jacket back on, “I think she hates my guts. Keep catching her giving me the worst looks.”
“I think that’s just her face.”
“She’s one of Jane’s loyalists.” Claire rolled her eyes as
she straightened her collar. “They’re probably already coming up with a plot to stitch me up for Jane’s murder.”
“If I overhear anything suspicious at the B&B,” he said with a wink, “I’ll let you know.”
They waved goodbye to Theresa and Malcolm Richards, the pub’s owners. The couple were so beloved by the people of the village, they were often referred to as ‘The Mother and Father of Northash’, a title that suited them perfectly. Village life revolved around The Hesketh in a way The Park Inn could only dream of.
Ryan pulled open the door, nodding for Claire to go first. The bright daylight blinded her, confirming that forgoing another pint was probably for the best.
“Have you given it much thought?” Ryan asked as they left the pub. “Kids, I mean?”
“Ugh, don’t.” Claire groaned. “I get enough of that at home. I don’t know. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t, I’ll be fine.”
“I think a lot of people think that way these days.”
“Try telling my mother that,” Claire said, pulling open the front gate. “Somehow every wave of feminism drifted right over her head.”
“How many waves have there been?”
“Not enough.” Claire let the gate swing loose after Ryan walked through. “It’ll take a tsunami before it hits my mother.”
Lingering outside the pub, their gazes drifted in the direction of the shop. The white tent had gone, but officers still milled about with purpose. A second tribute of fresh flowers had begun to collect under the window again as the bench was now buried.
“Any idea when you’ll get it back?” Ryan asked.
“Called this morning and they’re still being vague.” Claire’s stomach turned. “I should have been decorating.”
“You will.” Ryan nudged her and smiled, dimples appearing in his soft, freckled cheeks. “I’ll help when I can. Before you know it, you’ll be making Northash smell sweeter one candle at a time.” He wrapped his arm around her, giving her shoulder a little squeeze. “C’mon, I’ll walk you home before your mother disowns you and changes the locks for missing dinner.”
