The Darkest Evening

by Cleeves, Ann

  Juliet opened the door and felt a blast of icy air. The snow had stopped and it had started to freeze. There was a moon and the park looked glorious, a fairy-tale setting with the circle of black forest as a backdrop. She had a sudden moment of cold exhilaration, of love for the place. After all, Mark was right: this effort was worthwhile. On the doorstep was a woman. Definitely not a late-arriving friend who’d been forgotten. This woman was large and shabby. She wore wellingtons and a knitted hat. She reminded Juliet of the homeless people she encountered occasionally outside Newcastle Central station, wrapped in threadbare blankets, begging. Then there was a flash of recognition. She remembered a funeral. Her great-uncle Hector’s funeral. Hector, her grandfather’s younger brother, a mythical black sheep of whom stories had been told in whispers when she was growing up. It had been a bleak, rainy day and she’d been surrounded by strangers. She’d been sent along to represent their side of the family, because in death Hector could be forgiven. He would no longer be around to cause trouble.

  ‘Vera, we weren’t expecting you!’ She realized immediately that she’d let dismay creep into her voice. How rude that must sound! Was it possible that her mother, who was becoming ever more eccentric, had invited the woman without letting Juliet or Mark know? ‘I’m sorry, do come in out of the cold.’

  ‘Hello, pet.’ Vera came in and stamped her boots on the mat to get rid of the snow. ‘I’m not gatecrashing, honest. I’ve got a bit of a situation.’

  ‘What sort of a situation?’

  ‘Well, there’s this.’ Vera looked down and Juliet saw a sleeping child in a car seat. ‘Do you think I could bring it in? It’s freezing out here. It’s asleep at the moment.’ She looked at Juliet as if her opinion mattered.

  Juliet felt a tug in the gut. She’d wanted children ever since she could remember, but it hadn’t happened and she was approaching an age when perhaps it never would. Sometimes she couldn’t help an overwhelming feeling of jealousy when children were mentioned. If it’s not mine, I don’t care if it freezes to death. Sometimes a gentler longing, which was just as desperate. ‘Of course, bring him in. Or her. Which is it?’

  ‘Good point,’ Vera said. ‘I haven’t checked.’

  Juliet, who looked at mothers’ forums on the Internet in secret, with shame, as if she were accessing pornography, thought it could be about twelve months old. It might just be walking. Not properly talking. But really what did she know? In the drawing room, she heard the sound of voices, a sudden shrill laugh. It was clear that they weren’t missing her. Mark and Harriet would keep things going. She looked again at the baby and found herself unclipping the straps and lifting it out into her arms. It smelled of fabric softener and baby oil. And poo. ‘I think it needs changing. We might have nappies somewhere. Dorothy, our housekeeper, has a baby.’

  Duncan. Fourteen months old. Soft dark hair and round cheeks.

  ‘You must be Juliet,’ Vera said. ‘You were at Dad’s funeral. We didn’t really have a chance to speak.’

  ‘No.’ Juliet felt defensive. These days she often felt defensive. ‘I’m sorry. I had to rush away.’ Then, in an attempt to assert herself:

  ‘What’s the story behind this child? Why are you here?’

  ‘A car came off the road in the blizzard,’ Vera said. ‘I found this in the back. No sign of the driver. I need to use your phone, see if we can track down its parents.’

  ‘Oh, of course. You must.’

  ‘I don’t want to get in the way.’ Vera nodded towards the sound of laughter.

  ‘There’s a phone in the kitchen.’ Juliet found herself becoming decisive, useful. ‘You can use that. It’s warmer in there anyway. And we’ll get a nappy from Dorothy, make him more comfortable.’ Because, despite the gender-neutral colour of the clothes, Juliet had decided that this was a boy.

  In the kitchen there were good smells; they’d decided on pheasant, cooked slowly with red wine and shallots. Lots of pheasants, because they were cheap as chips here, and the city people would love them and find the dish exotic, authentic at least. And a vegetable casserole for the vegans and veggies. Roast potatoes and parsnips and sprouts because it was nearly Christmas. A variety of puds, hot and cold, because even the skinny women liked dessert and that way nobody would go to bed hungry. Dorothy was in charge, calm and capable, and Juliet felt a rush of gratitude. She wasn’t quite sure now what she’d do without the woman.

  ‘Dorothy, we’ve got a bit of a crisis.’

  Dorothy turned away from the pan she was stirring. Real custard made with eggs and cream. ‘Just give me a minute. I don’t want this to catch or separate.’ It was just a minute, then she looked at Juliet. ‘Sorry about that. What can I do for you?’ She was wearing jeans and a hand-knitted jersey. Her long hair was tied back with a red cotton scarf. Dorothy didn’t need to frock up, because she never went front of house, except in an emergency. That was part of the deal.

  ‘This is Vera, my cousin. Sort of. She’s found a baby in an empty car that ran off the road. We think the parents might have gone to find help. But he definitely needs changing. Do you have a spare nappy we might borrow?’

  ‘In the cupboard in the hall.’ And because Dorothy was efficient, there was also a changing mat and lotion and wipes. Juliet came back into the kitchen with the bag. She still had the child on her hip. Dorothy smiled. ‘Shall I do it?’

  ‘No,’ Juliet said. ‘You’ve got enough to do. I’ll manage. I’ll just take him upstairs.’ She was aware of Vera watching her.

  ‘Can I use your phone?’ Vera said. ‘Let the office know I’ve got an abandoned child in tow. See if we can track down the parents.’

  ‘Of course!’ Dorothy nodded to the extension on the dresser.

  Juliet saw that the baby was awake, staring at her. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’

  She walked past the drawing-room door but it seemed that still nobody had noticed that she was missing. Mark had a crowd around him and she heard him give a sudden guffaw, head back. Either it had been a very good joke or he was trying hard to impress. She looked at her watch. Another half an hour and they’d all go through to dinner.

  Upstairs she put the changing mat on their bed and the child on the mat. She wished again it wasn’t quite so cold. She would have liked to take her time over this. She took off the boots and snow suit and then a pair of dungarees, pulled off the nappy. She’d been right, it was a boy. When the child was dressed, she lingered again, standing by the window, the boy in her arms, looking out at the snow which had started to fall again, silent and relentless. It occurred to her that Vera wouldn’t get out now, even in the old Land Rover, and that the baby would be hers for the night.

  ‘Jules! Where are you, darling?’ It was Mark, shouting up the stairs. That false, loving voice he put on for strangers. The actor in him made it entirely credible to his listening audience, but she knew him well enough to hear the irritation. She set the thought aside. Mark was tense, that was all. He’d put so much effort into this evening. It mattered to him and she couldn’t spoil it.

  ‘Just coming! We’ve got rather a mysterious guest. Look, everyone!’ She was halfway down the stairs and through the open door; they all stared at her, at the child in her arms.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ The question hadn’t come from Mark, but from Harriet. Juliet’s mother had got up from her chair and moved out into the hall. Even in her late sixties, she was the most beautiful woman in the room. Silver hair, immaculately cut. Eyes icy and blue. A dancer’s grace and a model’s instinct for the clothes that most suited her. She was looking up at Juliet. ‘Is there something you haven’t been telling us, darling?’ The bad joke took the edge off her original question and the tension in the room dissipated.

  ‘Nah.’ It was Vera, who’d emerged from the kitchen and was standing on the edge of the crowd in the hall. ‘It belongs to me. Sort of.’

  ‘He.’ Juliet turned to Vera and smiled. ‘It’s definitely a boy.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you h
and him over then, pet? You don’t want your dinner spoiled. Dorothy and I can take care of him. I’ve put the word out. We should have the car owner traced in no time and your mystery will all be sorted.’ Vera turned to face Harriet. ‘You probably don’t recognize me. I was just a bairn myself last time I was here, or not much more than.’ Vera smiled. ‘Vera Stanhope. Hector’s daughter.’

  For a moment Harriet didn’t move. Juliet even wondered if there might be a scene, or as close to a scene as her mother could ever contemplate. A snide and disparaging remark about Hector, perhaps, or some comment about Vera’s appearance. Instead she decided to be gracious and reached out her hand. ‘Vera, what a lovely surprise. No, I didn’t recognize you, though I should have done. There’s definitely a family likeness. Something about the chin and the forehead. Will you join us for dinner?’

  Juliet thought Vera might do the unforgivable and accept the invitation, just to be mischievous, but the woman shook her head. ‘I need to find out what happened to this little one’s mother. It’s not a night for anyone to be traipsing around outside.’ She sounded genuinely concerned.

  Mark took over then and led the guests into the dining room, where there was another fire. Juliet handed over the baby and followed them in. It did look magnificent. Shadows thrown by candlelight and firelight hid the shabby corners, and the heavy curtains kept out the draughts, which made their way through the ill-fitting sash windows even on the warmest of days. The tablecloth was starched and white and the silver heavy and gleaming. Dorothy had hired in a couple of sixth-formers, daughters of a tenant farmer, to wait at table, slender young women in black dresses and black ballet pumps. According to Dorothy they were Goths during their spare time, so the black clothes hadn’t been a problem, but this evening they seemed willowy and charming, insubstantial, more ghost than vampire. Juliet thought of the snow; perhaps they too would need a bed for the night. Thank God for Dorothy. She would already have thought of the problem, had probably even phoned their parents. Without her, this would be a logistical nightmare.

  Mark didn’t begin his pitch until the meal was almost over. There was port on the table and the remnants of a Northumberland cheese board. They’d decided that everything should be as local as possible. If the Wylam Brewery had made port, they’d be drinking that too. Everyone was relaxed. He stood up and threw a couple more logs on the fire. Juliet watched him from the far end of the table and thought how easily he’d slipped into the role of country gentleman. It was hard to believe that he’d been brought up in a modest semi in one of the suburbs of Newcastle, and that he’d been educated in a state comprehensive. He even looked the part in his rather shabby clothes but fine, handmade shoes. He’d always been a quick learner and had known how to research a character.

  His voice was deep and musical; it had been the first thing to attract her. ‘Thanks to all our friends for turning out in this beastly weather. I’m sure you can see what a beautiful place this is, even in midwinter. We’ve decided it’s unfair to keep the house to ourselves. How can we justify all this space just for three people?’

  Four, Juliet thought, if you count Dorothy. She thought it rather unfair of Mark not to have counted Dorothy, then realized she’d drunk a little too much, because Dorothy of course had a family of her own.

  He was still speaking. ‘We’ve come up with the idea of a novel project that would allow the space and the beautiful landscape to be enjoyed by more people. A theatre, we thought, here in the heart of Northumberland. Opera has Glyndebourne, so why shouldn’t we have an artistic space in the North?’

  ‘Because up here, it rains all the bloody time!’ A shout from one of his college friends, the words slightly slurred.

  ‘We’re not talking outdoor performance.’ Mark smiled, but again Juliet could pick up the irritation. He wasn’t a stand-up comedian to be heckled. ‘Not necessarily, though of course with these gardens that would always be a possibility. We’re thinking an auditorium within the main house, as well as a studio space. We’d look to attract good touring companies and to support new local writing. We’re already looking into grant applications, but of course we need match funding. And that’s where you come in. This is your opportunity to invest in this project, to become sponsors and have your name or your organization involved right at the beginning.’ He paused and looked at them all. ‘You didn’t think we’d invited you here just for your company, did you?’ His grin grew wider. ‘Of course not! We need you to give us your money!’

  He had them hooked. Juliet could tell that right away. Now he was moving round the table, squatting so he was level with each individual, his face at once earnest and passionate, waving his arms as he described his vision, his grand idea. Charming his guests, making them believe they were special, that they could buy into a piece of the whole thing: grand house, grand family, a piece of history: the Northumberland Reivers. Of course, he did have a vision; it was for a theatre, away from the city. But he’d been truthful when he’d said it was really their money he was after. He’d seen within his first few months in the house that it was crumbling beneath them, and, by then, he’d come to love it as much as she did.

  Harriet got to her feet and waved to the room. ‘I fear I’m feeling my age. I’ll see you all in the morning.’

  Juliet watched her go. Her mother still had the stamina of a marathon runner. Harriet knew they had to do something to keep the house going, but she thought this talk of money was vulgar and wanted not to be a part of it. Mark was writing names in a notebook. He seemed pleased with the response he was getting. Juliet slipped quietly out of the room and made her way to the kitchen.

  Chapter Four

  VERA SAT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE and looked at the mound of pheasant bones, which was all that was left of her meal. The baby was back in the car seat close to the Aga, awake but drowsy. Watchful. Two black Labradors were curled together in a basket. They raised their heads occasionally then went back to sleep. Vera wondered what Hector would have said about her sitting here, in the servants’ quarters, with the housekeeper and the dogs. He’d probably have been affronted and made a scene on her behalf. Vera wasn’t sure what she made of it. Perhaps she should have accepted Harriet’s dinner invitation and sat with the bright young people in the grand dining room, but then she wouldn’t have been so warm or so comfortable. She’d never much seen the point of pride for its own sake. Besides, much of the time she’d been on the phone and she wouldn’t have wanted all those people listening in. Bad enough that she’d been forced to talk in front of Dorothy.

  Dorothy intrigued her. The housekeeper had a posh accent, more clipped and regal than Juliet’s. Tall with a rather long horsy face and big feet, but with a certain style and confidence. Perhaps because of that, it was hard to age her. Late thirties? No more than that despite the old-fashioned name. Vera carried her plate to the bin and threw away the bones. Dorothy was already loading the dishwasher with plates from the first course. The teenage lasses had carried through the mains to the dining room and were outside the kitchen door smoking an illicit tab. Vera nodded in the direction of the closed door. ‘They must be bloody freezing.’

  ‘They’re young. They don’t feel it.’

  ‘Juliet said you had a bairn. Boy or a girl?’ The one thing Vera knew about parents was that they liked talking about their offspring.

  ‘Boy. Duncan.’

  ‘What have you done with him then?’

  ‘He’s with Karan, my partner.’ A pause. ‘We’ve got a cottage on the estate.’

  ‘You didn’t recognize him?’ Vera nodded towards the toddler in the car seat. ‘I don’t know, from playgroup or mother-and-baby club? He might be local. You wouldn’t be driving around in this if you weren’t on your way home.’

  ‘No,’ Dorothy said. ‘I’ve never seen him. But I don’t socialize much. Karan would be more likely to know. He does the toddler group. He’s the main carer.’

  Then she was back, bent over the big double sink, up to her elbows in water, scru
bbing out the giant pans. The young women floated in from outside, their arms wrapped around their bodies. They’d been standing in a covered porch so their feet were dry, but in the moment that the door was opened there was a blast of freezing air and Vera saw the falling snow, as heavy as it had been earlier, caught in the light from the kitchen.

  ‘Can you clear the plates, girls?’ Dorothy looked away from the sink for a moment to speak, but her back was turned to Vera. It was obvious that she was in no mood for conversation with the strange woman who’d blown in with a baby. ‘Then come back for the puddings. They can go on the table so people can help themselves. And leave the cheese on the sideboard. Juliet or Mark will deal with that. Then you can get off.’

  ‘Will they get home?’ Vera thought she didn’t need more dramas tonight.

  ‘Their dad farms the land around Brockburn. The Home Farm. The house isn’t far and he’s coming with a tractor. The girls can squeeze in the cab with him. He’s already on his way. That’s why I’ve told them to leave the desserts for Juliet and Mark to serve.’

  The phone rang. Vera looked at Dorothy for permission to answer it. The housekeeper nodded. ‘Vera Stanhope.’

  It was Holly, her DC. Vera had caught her still in the office and had left a list of instructions. ‘I’ve got a name for you. The registered owner of the car.’