by Diane Janes
‘Have you tried to see it from my point of view? All my roots are up here. We’ve just made The Ashes into a lovely home and now you’re asking me to leave it. I don’t even like it down south.’
Bruce was struggling to contain his growing annoyance. ‘Firstly, Leicester is not in the south, it’s in the Midlands. As for your so-called roots, your parents are dead and you’ve got one cousin who lives in London and one who lives in Peterborough, both of which are actually closer to Leicester than they are to here, and the others are all so distant that they’re no more than names on a Christmas card list. And the prospects for the children will be much, much better. It’s a far more prosperous part of the country, with far more jobs available.’
‘What about The Ashes? What about all the work we’ve put in?’
‘Look on it as an investment. It will fetch much more than you paid for it. Wait until you start house-hunting down there. We could have one of those big splooshy new builds, four or five bedrooms, an en-suite for us, somewhere fuel economical. You have to admit that this house isn’t exactly practical.’
‘In what way?’
‘The sheer size of the place. The layout. Huge gardens, back and front. These houses were designed for people who could afford to keep servants. You know it’s too much for you to keep up with. I went into the study for some Sellotape the other day and you could write your name in the dust. It’s not that I’m being critical …’
‘Well, I do let the study go a bit, because no one seems to go in there very much.’
‘My point entirely. It isn’t used. Absolutely surplus to requirements.’
‘But Bruce, I love this house.’
‘Who’s to say that you won’t find another house you like even better?’
‘I won’t.’
‘You might at least try,’ he snapped.
‘I’m sorry. I know I ought to be pleased for you and everything, but you don’t understand how I feel. I thought we were happy here. I thought we were here to stay.’
He had let his hands drop from her shoulders, but now he raised his right hand and gave her left shoulder a squeeze. ‘I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like this. We’ll find another house which you’ll like even better than this one, and you’ll soon make lots of new friends. There will be all the usual things, I expect. PTA and coffee mornings and such like. It’s not as if it’s a completely new area to both of us. We can look up some of my old friends. Most of them are married now. Then there will be the other wives from work. We’ll be doing a bit of entertaining. That will help you get to know people.’
‘What sort of entertaining?’
‘Oh, the odd buffet supper, things on sticks. Just the usual. The type of stuff that Ray and Jan lay on when we go there.’
‘But Jan’s a brilliant cook!’
‘You don’t need to be brilliant to put cheese and pineapple on sticks.’
‘Jan has never given us cheese and pineapple on sticks. What was that thing she gave us last time? Something Maringo?’
‘It was chicken, wasn’t it? Sweetheart, the sauce probably came out of a packet. You should be flattered. It was partly because of you that I got the job at all.’
‘Why? What do you mean?’
‘Well, John Crimmond approves of you tremendously. Ideal company wife, capable of putting on a bit of a spread, chatting to the other wives, being supportive and keeping the home fires burning. Now Keith Tulley’s wife Marianne, you see, she’s a career girl, might cut up rough about moving in case it affected her job.’
‘But everyone just assumes that I will move without any fuss.’ Her tone was bitter.
‘Well, you haven’t got a job, so obviously we’re mobile. Good Lord, Wendy, lots of families have to move about the country – the world, even – at regular intervals. It’s not as though it’s going to cost us anything. The firm will cover all our relocation expenses.’
‘It’s going to cost me my home.’
‘Is that all you can think about? This precious bloody house? You can be very selfish at times.’
‘And I suppose you’re not being selfish at all? Uprooting the whole family just because it suits your work.’
‘Can I remind you that it’s my work that keeps this whole show on the road?’
She paused then, thinking guiltily of her status as a non-working wife, the expensive gift at Christmas, a day spent at the county archives while the dust in the study built up, and the bumper crop of carrots from her father-in-law’s allotment sat waiting to be made into something for the freezer. ‘I expect you’re right,’ she conceded. ‘It will all be for the best in the end.’
‘Of course it will.’ He leaned forward and kissed her forehead.
She accepted the kiss then turned to face the sink, not wanting him to see the deceit in her eyes.
We live in a scary world. People go missing every day. Some of them turn up, some of them are never seen again. But they can’t pin it on you without a body. That’s always been my assumption. My hope.
TEN
February–April 1981
Wendy was surprised at how well the children took the news of the impending move. It was probably because of the way Bruce had sold the whole scheme to them – in the guise of a great big adventure, she thought. He wasted no time in putting The Ashes on the market, and booked a week’s holiday from work to coincide with the children’s half term, with the intention of devoting the time to house-hunting. To Wendy’s considerable annoyance, Tara decided at the last minute that instead of accompanying the rest of the family to Leicestershire, she preferred to go and stay with Robert in Solihull.
‘But I want you to be part of choosing the new house.’
‘What’s the point? I’m going to uni soon and in future I’ll be spending half my holidays with Bob and Mel. Anyway, I didn’t help choose this house. You just said we were buying it and that was that.’
Nor did Wendy relish the prospect of a week with her in-laws in Ashby-de-la-Zouch. Her fears were well founded. By Wednesday night she and Bruce were exchanging sharp, if muted words, in the privacy of their bedroom.
‘Can you please ask your mother to stop feeding the kids a constant diet of sweets and chocolate?’
‘It’s only for a week. It’s not doing them any harm.’
‘She’s only doing it to undermine me.’
‘Don’t be so silly.’
‘Yes, she is. True to her usual fashion, your mother is indulging the children to a ridiculous degree, with the result that Jamie in particular is playing us all off one against another and generally behaving atrociously.’
‘Jamie has picked up on the atmosphere you have helped to create and is taking advantage of it.’
‘What do you mean “the atmosphere I’ve helped to create”?’
‘Well, you aren’t exactly being cooperative, are you?’
‘I am being extremely cooperative. I have spent the last fortnight keeping The Ashes spotless and showing people all over it like some kind of tour guide, followed by the last three days being driven from one new development to another, looking around house after house.’
‘You might at least pretend to be enthusiastic.’
‘I am doing my best, Bruce, truly I am. But after the first half-dozen developments, one Laurels or Westmoreland starts to look very much like another. The children have lost interest completely, and today they just ended up racing around, squabbling about who’s having which bedroom.’ She faced him in a direct appeal. ‘The houses are all starting to look the same. This afternoon we found we were looking at a design we’d seen yesterday on another estate. Honestly, I’ve got to the stage where I’m not even sure we aren’t looking at the same houses we walked round the day before.’
‘And none of them are right,’ he said, with more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice. ‘In one the kitchen’s too small, in the next one the kitchen space is adequate but the bedrooms don’t suit, and so it goes on.’
‘I’m trying to be
constructive. You said we didn’t have to make our minds up right away.’
‘But you don’t seem to want to make your mind up at all. Several of these firms will accept our old house in part exchange. If we went for one of those deals, we could be on the move in a matter of weeks. You know I have to be in post by the end of March, and Tara’s last exam is the first week in June. I don’t want to be staying at Mum and Dad’s through the week and shuttling up and down the motorway at weekends on a permanent basis.’
‘But a new house, Bruce … It’s a big decision. It isn’t easy. And anyway, it isn’t just my decision. You must have a preference.’
‘I don’t recall you being too worried about my views when you bought The Ashes. I’ve told you, that double-fronted place at Whitwick would suit me. Or the Wolverton – that’s a great design, I don’t see how we could go wrong with that. To be honest, I’d be fine with just about anything we’ve seen, so long as you’re happy with it. There are pros and cons with all these new places. There’s no such thing as the perfect house and you know it. And please don’t try to tell me that where we live now is perfect, because you and I both know that is very far from being the case.’
‘You see, that’s the thing … I’m wondering if we shouldn’t look for something older.’
‘Now, you know we discussed this before. I don’t want to get involved in some chain which collapses when someone further down the line pulls out and everyone else has to start all over again. Besides which, a new house needs nothing doing to it. No more wrecks and projects. These old places are money pits. We want somewhere we can move straight into.’
Wendy reached for the pile of brochures on the bedside table and began to consider them in what she hoped Bruce would take as a positive fashion. ‘Which ones are we going to look at tomorrow?’ she asked.
At the conclusion of the week nothing had been decided and the journey north was mostly accomplished in silence. A little pile of post was lying on the hall floor and the light was blinking on the telephone answering machine. Wendy pressed the button to rewind the tape, then pressed play. When she realized that it was Joan, she was rather glad that everyone else had already dispersed further into the house. Bruce was unaware that they were still on the trail of information about the house’s former occupants, and Wendy strongly suspected that he wouldn’t approve.
‘I’ve made a breakthrough on Peggy Disberry,’ Joan said, after a brief preamble. ‘Do ring me back as soon as you can.’
Wendy waited until the following day when she had the house to herself before she returned Joan’s call. They had touched on the possibility of locating Peggy Disberry several times, without ever reaching any particular conclusion on the subject.
‘How on earth did you find her?’ Wendy asked.
‘Simplest thing, my dear. I just got it into my head to look in the phone book. There are only two Disberrys and the first one happened to be her brother. He was a bit cagey at first and I had to tell a couple of little fibs, I’m afraid. I told him we were researching a history of Bishop Barnard – well, yes, I know … I said it was for a little book we were putting together. Anyway, to cut a long story short, he gave me her address and telephone number and I rang her up. It’s so lucky you’ve rung back just now, because I’ve arranged for us to go and see her this afternoon. I was on absolute tenterhooks in case I didn’t get you in time. You can come this afternoon, can’t you? I can pick you up if you don’t have the use of the car today.’
‘Bruce has taken the car to work … And I have to be home for Jamie at three.’ As she spoke, Wendy felt the weight of her omission in failing to explain to Joan that even if she had half-a-dozen cars sitting on the drive, she would not have been able to use one of them.
‘That’s not a problem. Peggy Disberry lives in Stockton, so it won’t take us long to get there and back. Say I pick you up at one? I can easily get you home for three. Must dash now, my dear, I’ve got a hair appointment.’
Joan arrived on time and kept the engine running while Wendy trotted down the drive to the gate. They screeched away at high speed, with Wendy still fastening her seat belt.
‘Is it far?’
‘No,’ said Joan. ‘It’s that rather rough estate on the edge of Stockton. It won’t take us long to get there at this time of day.’
An unnecessary observation, Wendy thought, since the speed at which Joan was driving meant it wouldn’t take long to get anywhere at all.
‘Any luck with the house?’ Joan asked.
‘You mean selling? Nothing definite. One couple seemed keen, but they haven’t sold their own house yet.’
‘House purchase is such a nightmare these days,’ Joan said, jamming her brakes on as the lights ahead turned red. ‘And it’s not like the old days, when people shook hands on a price and kept to their word. Today everyone thinks they can start horse-trading about the price at the last minute. One has to deal with such a different type of person these days.’
‘Bruce is quite keen to do one of those part-exchange deals on a new house, so we don’t get involved in a chain.’
‘Don’t you rather lose out on the price of your own house with those sorts of things?’
‘Bruce thinks it’s worth losing a couple of thousand, just to move quickly and avoid hassle. He says that if you don’t sell quickly, you often end up having to reduce the price in any case.’
‘And what about you, my dear? What do you think?’
‘I can’t decide. And the trouble is …’ It was somehow easy to confide in Joan. ‘I don’t really want to leave The Ashes. We haven’t even lived there a year.’
‘George and I did an awful lot of moving about,’ Joan said thoughtfully. ‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, of course, but I sometimes used to think how nice it would be to settle down – and I always thought of this area as home.’
‘That’s how I feel.’ Wendy’s words came out in a rush. ‘The Ashes is home. The home I’ve always wanted. It’s the place I wanted to end up in, not a stop on the route. But once it’s sold, there won’t be any going back to it.’
‘I suppose you couldn’t rent it out while you live somewhere else? Have it to come back to, once you were able.’
‘We can’t afford to buy another house and keep The Ashes on, unless we take out a mortgage, and Bruce won’t hear of that now we’ve been able to pay the old one off. Besides which, I think Bruce sees the move south as potentially permanent. He’s from Leicestershire originally.’
‘Ahh … So Bruce’s direction of travel isn’t necessarily the same as yours when it comes to an eventual finishing line,’ Joan said thoughtfully. In a completely different tone, she asked, ‘How much have I told you about this book we’re working on?’
‘Book?’
‘Our history of Bishop Barnard. That’s officially what we’re going to talk to Peggy Jones about. Her married name is Jones, did I mention that?’
‘You haven’t told me anything about the book.’
‘Well, I told this Peggy Jones that we’re including a chapter on unsolved mysteries in Bishop Barnard.’
‘Are there any – apart from Dora?’
‘Of course not! Well, none that I know about anyway, but if necessary I’m going to waffle a bit about some missing medieval church plate. I didn’t get the impression that we’re dealing with an academic, or the sort of person who’s going to know about that kind of thing. Oh yes,’ Joan added, ‘I also told her that we wouldn’t be able to pay her anything for talking to us. You know what people are like … they read about the Daily Mail paying thousands for someone’s night of passion with a great train robber and imagine that some half-remembered anecdote is going to make their fortune.’
‘Am I supposed to be your secretary?’
‘Of course not. You’re my co-writer. I brought along my notepad and pencil from the record office to make us look a bit more convincing. I thought about bringing a cassette tape recorder, but that might be a bit inhibiting. People don’t
always like being recorded.’
The residents of the estate where their quarry lived were divided into those who cultivated their front gardens and those who left a square of beaten earth to be fouled by the local canines. The house inhabited by Peggy Jones had a square of lawn, fronted by a privet hedge which appeared to have expired in one or two places. It was easy to pick out because the number seventeen had been painted in large, childish numerals alongside the front door. There was a smirking garden gnome on the doorstep and the net curtains at the front windows were an alarming shade of primrose yellow.
Wendy followed Joan as she walked briskly up the path. The bell, when pressed, emitted an agonized rendition of the opening bars of Greensleeves.
Joan just had time to mutter, ‘Eat your heart out, Vaughan Williams,’ before the door was opened and the frame filled by a large, plump woman whose body had been squeezed into a skirt and sleeveless jumper which appeared to be at least two sizes too small. Her freckled arms were a completely different flesh tone to her made-up face, which included lashes and brows which had been blackened until they matched the unnaturally black hair piled into a sort of plaited loaf on top of her head. However, Peggy Jones afforded them such a genuinely warm welcome that Wendy experienced more than a pang of guilt at Joan’s deceitful method of gaining entry to her home.
‘Call me Peggy,’ their hostess instructed, as she ushered them into the living room. ‘Everyone does, ever since I were a bairn.’
She insisted on making them tea, in spite of Joan’s protestations that she need not, so while Peggy was busy in the kitchen and Joan was readying her notebook, Wendy occupied herself in looking around the room. There were lots of photographs of small children, all displayed in cardboard frames, some of them faded through long exposure to the light, and all having a slightly jaundiced appearance thanks to the effect of the net curtains. There was a very large television set and a number of china and glass ornaments, but not a single book, or even a newspaper. She could not help concluding that Joan had been correct in her assumption that Peggy would not detect them in their fraud.
