A Conspiracy of Aunts

by Sally Spencer

  ‘You would like to be my partner, wouldn’t you?’ Aunt Jacqueline asked.

  Her voice was strained, as if the effort of forcing the question out had been monumental. In all the time I’d lived with Aunt Jacqueline, I’d never heard her sound like this before. Her impatience, I was used to. Her brusqueness, I’d learned how to handle. But this was neither of those things. What I was hearing now was pure, blind panic. She was terrified I’d refuse to partner her, because she knew that I was her one chance – her only chance – to become a big name on the bridge circuit.

  ‘Yes, I’ll partner you,’ I told her.

  Well, I had no choice, did I? I didn’t dare defy my aunt – I was still a mere child, and the threat of Mr Bumble and his orphanage continued to hang heavily over my head. Besides, if the truth be told, I quite liked the idea. True, Aunt Jacqueline was not my ideal choice as partner, but I was sure that as long as I controlled the situation, she would prove quite adequate on the provincial circuit. And when the time came for me to move on to a better player, I’d try to drop her with a little more sympathy and understanding than she was about to show to Tom.

  ‘We’re moving on Monday,’ Aunt Jacqueline said, walking over to the sideboard and taking out a new pack of cards. ‘There must be a game somewhere near our new place on Monday night, so we’d better get our signals right.’

  How like my aunt! I still didn’t know exactly where we’d be going, but she had indicated it would be a long way from Tom, so we’d probably be travelling for most of the day. And when we finally arrived and the removers had departed, we’d be surrounded by our own personal chaos. But none of that would bother Jacqueline – she’d find the nearest bridge club, and off we’d go.

  She sat down opposite me and dealt out the hands, as she’d done so often in the past. I picked up my cards and sorted them. I had a solid opener – a good spade suit, a diamond doubleton.

  ‘What bidding system are we using?’ I asked. ‘Acol’s always seemed a bit restrictive to me, and the Blue Club, for all its faults, is—’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ my aunt told me. ‘Just bid.’

  ‘One spade,’ I said, keeping it simple.

  Aunt Jacqueline nodded with satisfaction. ‘We’ve hit a grey area already,’ she said. ‘Look at my hand – only don’t make it too obvious.’

  Don’t make it too obvious?

  If she was going to lay her cards down on the table, how could I look at them without making it obvious? And why should I want to, anyway?

  ‘Well, look at it!’ Aunt Jacqueline said impatiently.

  But how could I look while she kept her cards pressed tightly against her scrawny chest?

  ‘Do you mean you want me to look at the backs of your cards?’ I asked, wondering if her earlier fears that I’d refuse to be her partner had temporarily unhinged her.

  A look of comprehension appeared on my aunt’s face. She at least understood me, even if I still didn’t understand her.

  ‘Not the cards, you bloody fool,’ she said. ‘My hand … the thing at the end of my arm, with fingers attached to it.’

  ‘You mean the one you’re holding your cards in?’

  ‘No, the other one, you idiot. The one that’s resting on the table.’

  Not having a straitjacket readily available, I decided to humour her, and let my gaze fall on her left hand.

  Four stubby fingers – two of them stained a dark nicotine-brown – all perfectly still. Then her index finger gave a barely perceptible twitch.

  ‘See that,’ my aunt asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, wondering if lunatic asylums, like dispensing chemists, had a late-night rota.

  ‘Less obvious than facial signals,’ Aunt Jacqueline said with satisfaction. ‘Index finger shows a void in a major suit, little finger a void in a minor.’

  Now, finally, I did understand her – and I was horrified.

  ‘Cheating!’ I gasped. ‘You’re talking about cheating.’

  ‘Everybody does it,’ Aunt Jacqueline said, matter-of-factly. ‘It’s even happened in international tournaments. Gives you the edge, and you’ll never get anywhere without the edge.’

  ‘Perhaps some people do cheat,’ I admitted. ‘But I won’t do it.’

  Aunt Jacqueline’s eyes narrowed. ‘You won’t, eh?’ she said, with an edge of menace in her voice.

  ‘No,’ I said firmly.

  ‘You’d prefer the orphanage, would you?’

  I no longer believed in the eye-eating rats, but, even without them, I knew the orphanage would be bad enough.

  ‘Well?’ Aunt Jacqueline said harshly. ‘What’s it to be – partnership on my terms, or the orphanage?’

  ‘I haven’t … I can’t …’ I stuttered.

  ‘Make up your mind.’

  ‘The orphanage,’ I gasped.

  ‘You really mean it, don’t you?’ Aunt Jacqueline asked incredulously.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, trying not to cry. ‘I really mean it.’

  My aunt’s mouth drooped, and her skin sagged as if it had been made for a much larger person. Tears poured from her eyes and cascaded over cheekbones which had turned chalky white.

  I reached across the table and gently stroked her cropped hair. It was the first real physical contact we’d ever had.

  ‘Why won’t you do it for me?’ my aunt sobbed. ‘Just tell me why.’

  ‘I won’t do it because Mother would never have approved.’

  Aunt Jacqueline’s head whipped suddenly back. I watched – mesmerised – as burning anger dried her tears, and her ever-growing rage stained her pale face blood-red.

  ‘Mother would never have approved,’ she mimicked. ‘Think your mother was perfect, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She wasn’t. My God, she wasn’t! Do you want to know how she died?’

  A wave of inexplicable dread swept over me, chilling me to the depth of my bones.

  ‘For Rob’s sake, we should come to an agreement that none of us will ever tell him exactly how his mother died,’ Sadie had said just after the funeral.

  And all the other aunts had agreed.

  ‘You promised never to tell,’ I told my Aunt Jacqueline, in a frightened whisper.

  ‘So what?’ she asked bitterly. ‘Why should I see all my hopes turn to ashes just because you’ve got some cock-eyed idea about your mother? I’ll tell you everything – then maybe you won’t think cheating’s so bad after all.’

  Memories which my brain had long since buried began to claw their way out of the graveyard of my mind.

  I could hear the sea roaring.

  I could smell the salt in the air.

  And when I closed my eyes, I could see a woman walking along the beach – Mother, beautiful Mother, her golden hair gleaming in the sunshine, the hem of her green silk dress swirling in the breeze.

  She was not alone! Another presence walked by her side, but whereas my vision of her was as clear as if she’d been in the room with me, this other figure – this spectre – was nothing more than a sinister black outline.

  My fear was increasing by the second. I knew – don’t ask me how – that though I didn’t recognise the apparition at that moment, it was no stranger to me. I knew, too, that if I gazed on the scene much longer, the layers of darkness would be stripped away, and I’d be forced to acknowledge the figure for what it was.

  And I didn’t want that. I couldn’t … take that.

  I searched desperately for something else on which to focus my mind.

  The 1968 Gold Cup! Harrison-Grey had been playing West and held the King of Spades and the Ace and King of Hearts …

  The phantom of my nightmare vision was becoming less obscure by the second and was moving closer and closer towards being recognisable.

  North had five hearts, and so did South. East had a void and …

  Now, where there had only been a black emptiness, I could make out the beginnings of ey
es and a nose.

  ‘Think,’ I urged myself. ‘Concentrate on the game.’

  North bid Six Hearts, and Harrison-Grey immediately doubled, but at the next table … yes … yes …. that’s it … that’s better … at the next table they were playing the “unpenalty double” and Jonathan Cansino was forced to pass, even though he had the top two honours in trumps.

  I had succeeded in my exorcism. The evil black figure had disappeared, and I was back in my aunt’s living room.

  How long had I been gone?

  I didn’t know for sure, but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, because my aunt hadn’t moved or even begun to tell her terrible tale.

  ‘What your mother was doing …’ Aunt Jacqueline began.

  I clamped my hands over my ears.

  ‘Don’t want to listen,’ I chanted loudly. ‘Don’t want to listen … Don’t want to listen … Don’t want to listen …’

  I could see my aunt mouthing at me, but I couldn’t hear the words. Then she reached across, grabbed my arms and slammed them down on the table.

  ‘You will listen,’ she screamed. ‘I’ll make you listen.’

  ‘Can’t make me,’ I shouted. ‘Can’t make me. No, you can’t.’

  ‘All had the same temptation …’ my aunt screeched.

  ‘Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water—’

  ‘… even that self-righteous prig Catherine—’

  ‘… and Jill came tumbling after, sing a song of sixpence a pocket full of rye. Four-and twenty blackbirds—’

  ‘… but only your mother, your precious bloody mother, gave in to it …’

  My aunt’s fingers were gripping me tightly – digging into my flesh. I couldn’t hold out much longer, and we both knew it.

  I prayed to God, then to the Devil, then to whatever passing deity might listen – for the strength to break away, and heaved with all my might.

  I felt Aunt Jacqueline’s fingers start to slip, and suddenly my thin, bruised arms were free.

  ‘Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow …’ I shouted as I jumped up from my chair.

  ‘Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross …’ I bellowed as I rushed down the hallway.

  ‘Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all …?’ I roared as I flung open the front door.

  The air outside tasted fresh and pure. I rushed down the path, leaving the Wicked Queen alone in her dark castle.

  8

  I have retained a few vague images of the following two hours – a dog cocking its leg against a lamppost, an old man leaning heavily on his stick, a group of normal, average, lucky, children playing tag – but for most of the time I neither knew where I was going nor where I had been.

  My mind was in turmoil. To return home – to present myself to my aunt and stand there passively while she stabbed me through the heart with the true facts of my mother’s death – was clearly unthinkable.

  Yet where else could I go but home? I was only eleven years old. If I ran away, Constable Fliques would be sure to find me, and bring me back in chains.

  Finally admitting to myself that I had no choice but to return to my aunt’s house, I started to walk back towards our estate, my head bent in defeat.

  It was then that I noticed the phone box! It was not remarkable in itself – its red paint was exactly like the red paint on every other phone box in the country, its floor was carpeted with the sweet papers, cigarette ends and lolly sticks you will find in boxes from Land’s End to John O’Groats – but it was about to have a remarkable effect on my life and the lives of many other people. The destinies of my four aunts, of Sir Llewellyn Cypher, Pastor Ives, the residents of the Old Almshouse in Shelton Bourne, even of Ernest Fellstead (Mr) and the rest of the dirty mackintosh brigade, were, at that moment, about to be altered.

  I didn’t know that at the time.

  All I thought then was, ‘I’ve had an idea, Mother.’

  I looked up into the darkening sky, half-expecting to see Mother looking down at me. Her face wasn’t there, of course, yet I could still feel her presence.

  ‘But is it a good idea, Mother?’ I asked. ‘Is it one you’d approve of?’

  And I swear I heard her voice, as soft and clear as if she was standing right next to me and whispering in my ear.

  And what did that voice say?

  It said, ‘Look at the change in your pocket, Bobby. If there’s a 5p piece amongst it, it means you were meant to make the call.’

  I reached into the pocket and pulled out some coins. There was not one 5p among them, but two! A double endorsement!

  I no longer had a sense of Mother’s presence, but it didn’t seem to matter. Whistling tunelessly to myself, I pulled open the phone box door and stepped inside.

  9

  Aunt Jacqueline died soon after that, and so I went to live with Aunt Peggy.

  PART THREE: The Queen of Diamonds

  1

  Aunt Jacqueline’s final journey to the great bridge tournament in the sky should have been a sombre affair – but her sisters, Catherine and Peggy, quickly turned it into something of a circus.

  They started arguing in hushed, furious tones the moment they met over the closed coffin. The debate continued with increasing ferocity on the route to the church, and attained even greater intensity during the service.

  The other mourners, mainly representatives of the various bridge clubs at which my aunt had played, showed outrage on their faces, but didn’t dare put it into words. Even the vicar, an unflappable cleric of the old school, was well and truly flapped, and I’m sure it was Catherine and Peggy’s presence – rather than a personal knowledge of Aunt Jacqueline’s nicotine habit – which caused him to pronounce on the human condition in terms of “ashtrays to ashtrays.”

  And what were my dear, loving aunts fighting about?

  Me, of course!

  ‘Why didn’t Sadie come?’ I heard Aunt Peggy hiss, when we had finally turned our backs on the last resting place of the Olympic Class Smoker and Bridge Cheat, and were heading for the lych gate. ‘Why isn’t she here to take her share of the responsibility?’

  ‘Jacqueline wished you to take care of the boy if anything happened to her,’ Aunt Catherine replied. ‘She told me so herself.’

  ‘Then it’s strange she didn’t bother to tell me as well,’ Aunt Peggy countered. ‘Anyway, I’ve got enough on my hands with all my cats.’

  ‘Your heart is as hard as the tap water in Pontypridd,’ Aunt Catherine told her fat little sister, ‘but a little of the Lord’s miracle detergent may soften it yet.’

  ****

  It was over the funeral tea that Aunt Catherine gave up on persuasion and turned instead to pressure.

  ‘The man in charge of the Cheshire police is called Chief Constable Douglas Hampton,’ she told her sister.

  ‘Is he?’ Aunt Peggy asked, though she seemed to be more interested in stuffing a whole chocolate éclair into her mouth than in receiving any information about her local police force.

  ‘Yes, he’s a good man – a deeply religious man,’ Aunt Catherine continued. ‘He’s very active in the Law and Order Tabernacle.’

  ‘So?’ Aunt Peggy said, masticating furiously on the éclair, and reaching across for a buttered scone.

  ‘He writes to me often,’ Aunt Catherine told her. ‘Or rather, he writes to my special post box.’

  The hand which had been about to feed the scone into Aunt Peggy’s pastry disposal system froze in mid-air.

  ‘To your special post box,’ she repeated worriedly.

  ‘So far, he has only assisted my mission through financial contributions,’ Catherine said, ‘but I’m sure if I asked him to do something more practical, he wouldn’t refuse.’

  ‘You mean …?’ Peggy said tremulously.

  ‘I mean that if I told him there was something not quite right at your smallholding, he’d agree to investigat
e it. After all …’ and here Catherine’s voice hardened, ‘… he wouldn’t really have much bloody choice, would he?’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Aunt Peggy choked. ‘What I told you was confidential – a secret shared between sisters – and I never thought for a minute that you’d … that you’d … This is nothing but blackmail.’

  ‘In looking after the boy, you would be carrying out our dear departed sister’s wishes, and at the same time paying a fair and just penance for your life of sin,’ Aunt Catherine said firmly.

  ‘I won’t do it!’ Aunt Peggy protested.

  ‘How does the song go?’ Aunt Catherine asked.

  ‘What song?’

  ‘You know the one I mean. It’s something about a kiss on the lips being quite continental, but diamonds being a girl’s best friend.’

  If I was amazed that Aunt Catherine should know the words of such a secular song, I was even more astounded by Peggy’s reaction. The greed for food, which had blazed in my roly-poly aunt’s eyes seconds earlier, was now entirely absent.

  ‘Very well, Catherine,’ she said heavily. ‘I still don’t think it’s right, but I’ll agree to take the boy for a trial period.’

  ‘A trial period,’ Aunt Catherine mused, ‘an introductory offer. Yes, that should do for a start.’

  2

  ‘You have a few drinks with your sister, get a little bit tipsy, and let slip how you earn your living,’ Aunt Peggy said bitterly, as she plopped down into one of the over-stuffed armchairs which dominated her living room. ‘And what does she do?’

  ‘I don’t know, Auntie,’ I said.

  My suitcase, which I’d been carrying all day, weighed heavy in my hand, but I didn’t have the nerve to put it on the floor and sit down, like my aunt had done. I considered myself very much on trial, you see, and however little the prospect of living with Aunt Peggy appealed to me, it was still better than being cast into the middle of my Dickensian nightmare.

  ‘I’ll tell you what she does,’ Aunt Peggy said. ‘She uses it to stab me in the back. Well, I’ve half a mind to use what she told me to stab her in the back. The only problem is I’m not sure that what she does is illegal.’