by Fiona Walker
A round of ‘Good luck’ followed.
Gill shot her a you’re-not-suffering-enough look. ‘Thank God Paul’s lot only venture across from New Zealand once a decade.’ She wasn’t remotely short of breath, medium trot plumb-line straight along the snow-tufted track. ‘Ma and Pa are dead, of course, but one keeps one’s chin up. Both dying at Christmas is always a bit of a sore point.’
Petra blanched guiltily.
The tough, no-nonsense smile picked her up. ‘Pip has an aunt on the Isle of Wight. My old nanny is in the same sheltered accommodation. Young Pip – or Pauline, as Auntie calls her – is flavour of the month after writing a lovely letter recently, and would be most welcome for the festive period. You can still get a passenger-ferry gift voucher, Nanny tells me.’
‘Gill, have I told you I love you lately?’ By way of thanks and rebonding, Petra indiscreetly and somewhat guiltily shared Pip’s Tinder conman selfie among the Bags when they pulled up for a breather at the windmill. ‘We need to find this bastard.’
Mo deleted it immediately, Gill stared at it in disbelief, and Bridge made it her phone wallpaper. A shocked silence reigned.
‘I’ll ask Paul,’ Gill said eventually, then looked surprised as the rest of the Bags protested. ‘Why ever not?’
*
Ronnie arrived at the Old Almshouses armed with Pip’s home cooking from the stud’s freezers and supermarket bags of cupboard supplies.
Carly Turner was already waiting on the doorstep in a pink tabard, casting her a bemused look through the pretty dark eyebrows that contradicted her blonde hair. ‘I was expecting the Home Comforts lady.’
‘I’m undercover, recruiting you to come and visit my neglected foal.’
She snorted with laughter. ‘Seriously, though?’
‘Long story, could easily have been shortened by a quick “Bugger off” but I’m glad it hasn’t. Pip’s indisposed. And you’re here, which is kismet. Shall we start with a cup of tea?’ She dug around for the key under the boot-scraper, trying not to feel too disconcerted walking into Hermia’s half-life.
Carly was in no mood for introspection. ‘You’re kidding? I’m due waitressing in two hours. Get these rubber gloves on, lady.’
‘You’re the pro.’ Ronnie watched her marching in and followed reluctantly. It smelt, not unpleasantly, of incense, Scotch and baking. And it was a bombsite.
A super-efficient blitzer, Carly tidied and recycled at warp speed. If Ronnie had been planning on staying on in the village, she’d have been tempted to offer her a job on the spot.
‘This’ll do,’ Ronnie said, with relief, once the place looked reasonably clear, cramming the last of the food away, deliberately blinkered to her surroundings, eyes on the practical, not the personal. ‘The oil tank’s being filled later today, logs coming tomorrow. All done.’
‘Are you kidding? It’s not even clean yet. These are for you.’ Carly handed her a big sachet of anti-bacterial wipes. ‘They’re Janine’s specials. I nabbed a pack.’
‘What does one do with them?’
‘Find dirt. Wipe. And dance.’ Propping her phone up on the peninsula, Carly set off to work to Jess Glynne’s ‘Hold My Hand’.
Ronnie blew out impatiently and followed suit, her eyes inevitably following her hands round the room as they ran the little throwaway cloths over surfaces and ornaments, picture frames and personal knick-knacks, piecing together a life that had all the enviable trappings of a chaotic, bright family, yet the secret it harboured showed up at every turn if you knew where to look: the widened doorways from the wheelchair years, the lowered surfaces, grab rails, aides-memoire, sensory stimuli, the rows of books on the shelves she dusted, their titles starting ‘Neuro’, the labels on things, and the many pictures of Hermia on stage to remind her of who she was, whom she had played.
Ronnie wiped a framed photograph of her as Medea, hauntingly beautiful.
‘You’re a slowcoach, you are.’ Carly hurried past with a mop bucket to empty.
‘I knew her.’ She held up the picture.
‘Oh, yes?’ At the kitchen sink, she was only half interested.
Ronnie set it back. She drew out a collection of Dorothy Parker’s poetry from the shelf behind it, finding her own name in the front. To H, Happy Birthday 2004. All love, R xx.
She turned down the page on ‘A Very Short Song’ and put it back. ‘While we’re scrubbing along, Carly, tell me what a girl with healing hands is doing cracking them in a bucket of bleach.’
‘I’m saving to train as a farrier,’ Carly said, without hesitation, adding more hot water to her bucket, steam and unlikely eyebrows rising. ‘I’m going to do it.’
‘I don’t doubt you could, if you put your mind to it, but I very much doubt you should.’
Carly turned off the taps, running this round in her head. Ronnie Percy was someone she admired a lot, but she had that posh, clever way of talking without coming to the point that could tie you up in knots. ‘Come again?’
‘You have a gift.’ Ronnie’s deep, rumbling laugh reminded her of a talent show judge announcing, ‘You have four yeses.’ ‘Yours is one of those unique skills that needs no apprenticeship. You must work with horses, Carly. But heal them, don’t shoe them.’
‘You serious?’ She put the mop bucket on the floor, water slopping.
‘Of course I’m serious. You could take formal training as a holistic practitioner in Reiki or massage therapy, if you prefer. Or simply trust to Fate and start straight away. I have an old arthritic horse that would really benefit from those hands of yours.’ She squirted disinfectant on the work surface beside Carly. ‘Word will soon get out.’
She made it all sound so possible. Carly was struggling not to whoop and dance around with her mop, like Belle with the Beast. But she knew embracing the dream would break the spell. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘You’ll do it.’ Ronnie’s forthright way of putting things reminded Carly of the officers’ wives in garrison. ‘And that husband of yours will be the one who trains as a farrier, if he has any sense.’
‘Flynn asked Ash to be his apprentice in the first place,’ Carly admitted. She was quite certain Ash didn’t want to be a personal trainer any more, his ennui and rebellion worsening because he was too proud to admit he’d chosen the wrong direction along Civvy Street. He and Flynn trusted and looked out for each other, the lance corporals of the old gang. They’d make a brilliant team, if only Ash could see it, could be persuaded to stop keeping everyone at a distance and to work with brothers in arms again.
‘Your young chap was bred for the job. The Turner family has more instinctive horse sense than a Monty Roberts convention trapped in a round pen. Besides which, he’s strong and immensely practical.’
‘That’s what Flynn said.’
‘There you go. I’m rather fond of Flynn. He might look like a Bonnie Tyler in drag, but he balances a hoof perfectly. And he’ll certainly need another pair of hands once the stud’s back in full swing.’
‘Ash says animals tie you down,’ she said uncertainly ‘He doesn’t like it that I’m so fond of dogs and horses.’
‘The healing works both ways,’ Ronnie said gently. ‘They’re very soothing and intuitive creatures. They know when somebody’s been through a bad time.’ A blue eye winked. ‘You, Flynn and I have plenty of time to talk him round. He will be very, very good. And you, my healing naiad, won’t have to mop floors much longer, trust me.’
When Ronnie said it, Carly believed it. She’d have to broach the idea with Ash slowly, but the more she thought about it, the more perfect it felt.
‘I’m so grateful to you,’ she said, deciding Ronnie was like the ultimate fairy godmother.
But she’d lost her attention. Ronnie was looking at a black-and-white photograph of a swash-buckling blonde in a ruff and cavalier hat, a sexy eighties New Romantic.
‘As You Like It’s such a wonderful play.’ She sighed. ‘Love is merely a madness.’
‘Why’s she
dressed as a bloke?’
‘Rosalind wants to turn the man she marries into someone as strong and upstanding as she is. I’ve been guilty of trying to do that. Maybe the secret is to wear doublet and hose.’
‘Or seriously big granny pants.’ Carly turned up the music on her phone.
‘It comes as shock to realise that having grandchildren means even my thongs are technically granny pants.’
As they worked their way round the house to a chart medley Ronnie didn’t recognise but rather liked, in a home she didn’t know but was surprised to find quirkily cosy, she pieced together enough clues to realise that, in the years before her death, Hermia had been loved, frustrated, depressed, safe, and utterly addicted to all manner of distractions from Agatha Raisin and Charles Paris mysteries to BBC Shakespeare and comedy box sets. But her ghost was long faded, her inner life hidden from view. While the photographs still radiated life, the house was now filled with a buzz of recent thought and chaos, fresh ring marks on the surfaces, fans of papers on the desk, recently published books spiralling in piles.
She also figured out that sleepy-eyed Carly was incredibly switched on, pissed-off and tired out. Her wounded soldier, whose pain was all in his mind, had gone through so many thresholds he was unaware of how much he was hurting her. Ronnie knew that scenario, however differently framed. It was within these very four walls.
‘You should get away from this village,’ she told her, as she polished an enamel box when they tackled the main bedroom together. ‘A gift like yours can spread its wings.’
‘Why run?’ Carly wiped down the window frames. ‘Trouble just runs with you.’
The little box fell open. It had a Silver Wedding crown in it: H on one side, V on the other. Ronnie spun it between her fingers. ‘My father used to say that if you walk in a straight line long enough you’ll always end up in the same spot.’
‘Well, the world is round, I guess.’
‘Try staying on a straight line circumnavigating it.’
Carly chuckled, throwing down her cloth and forcing open the window, snow falling in dull thuds from the gutters above. ‘I like your long words.’
‘I prefer wise ones. You’re a wise child.’ She was right. Trouble always ran with you.
They both breathed in cool air gratefully.
Outside, a voice below called, ‘Only me! Just seeing how you’re doing. Need to sit down. Can you let me in?’
Carly growled under her breath, ‘Don’t let her too close to me.’
Pip was soon reclining in the chair by the circular window, hand to her brow, eyes checking critically round the room. ‘I walked here. Petra said she was too busy to give me a lift, what with her parents and everything. They are so demanding.’
‘It’s only a few hundred yards.’ Carly huffed.
Pip gave her a martyred look. She disliked Petra’s parents intensely. Very blunt, Yorkshire and jovial, the elderly Shaws had seen straight through her hypochondria.
‘Charlie would have driven me – he’s super nice – but he’s taken his mother and the kids to the cinema. Such a good dad. They invited me, but I’m still too frail and I’ve got to get home to pack. I know this is going to come as a shock, and I’m sorry to let you down, Ronnie, but I’m going away over Christmas.’
‘Oh, that’s quite all right,’ Ronnie said quickly.
Pip appreciated her selflessness. ‘The Gunns are treating me, and they’re right, I deserve it. To be honest, it’s a relief to get away from that place. It’s very crowded.’
The overbearing Shaws were also very harsh on Barbara, roping her into cooking and clearing up to give ‘exhausted’ Petra a break: ‘Let’s give her and Charlie boy a bit of grown-up time together. I’ll ring and a bewk a restaurant as a nice surprise,’ Petra’s dad had insisted that morning. Petra and Charlie had both looked appalled at the idea. Pip sensed a marriage excitingly close to implosion. She didn’t want to stay away too long and risk missing anything.
‘I’m back on Boxing Day,’ she told Ronnie. ‘I’ve broken it to my oldies.’ She’d sent a mass text, which the ones with landlines would probably think was a PPI recorded message, but at least she’d tried. She was too weak for personal calls. ‘Can you keep an eye on this place for me? I know you’re having a quiet Christmas so you’ll have the time.’
‘It’s hardly going to fall down in three days,’ Carly pointed out.
There goes your Christmas tip. Pip glared at her, looking pleadingly at Ronnie, whom she found it particularly thrilling to extract favours from. ‘I’ve done so much for you and the stud and—’
‘I’ll check in on it.’ Ronnie was turning a large silver coin in her fingers.
Pip smiled gratefully. ‘You can’t be too careful. I’ve been targeted for my kindness. All sorts of chancers in this village.’
‘Don’t you accuse my Ash of anything again!’ Carly flared.
‘How was I to know his tattoos weren’t JD’s?’
Ronnie cleared her throat. ‘I gather one feature was genuine.’
Pip frowned. ‘How do you know about it?’
‘I may well know who his father was.’ She gave a knowing smile.
Pip was agog. ‘But who is the son?’
‘One of six,’ Carly butted in, picking her phone out of her pocket. ‘I’ve got a list of names, and I think I know which one he is, but I’ve no proof.’
‘Will this help?’ Pip took out her own phone and summoned her favourite picture.
‘Bloody hell.’
‘I know! Isn’t it just?’ She looked at it fondly.
‘Can you send me that?’ Carly shared her number. ‘Give me till you get back after Christmas. I’ll make him squirm.’
Feeling she might have misjudged her, Pip stood up with measured effort and headed unsteadily to the kitchen. ‘I know where there’s a tin of my best Rocky Road. I think we all deserve some, don’t you?’
‘Have you any plain sailing?’ Ronnie sighed, sending a ghost of a wink to Carly.
Carly watched as Pip returned, forgetting to sway, eager to ingratiate herself with her new crime-fighting team.
‘Tell him,’ she sat down breathlessly, ‘I’m prepared to forgive him if he still – has feelings.’
Carly caught Ronnie’s eye, grateful for their grounding amusement. She forwarded Pip’s picture text to Janine. Look familiar?
*
Carly had three hours off between lunch and her evening shift at Le Mill, enough time to pick up the kids from her mother-in-law, give them tea, bath Jackson, and catch up with Janine, who hurried straight round after her last cleaning client of the day, her spider eyes blinking fast.
‘It’s Jed,’ she confirmed, sitting down and taking Jackson to bounce on her knee. ‘I checked with his ex.’
‘Hardly a master of disguise, lifting his cousin’s Facebook photos and dropping the e from his name.’
‘Jed’s been dropping Es for years, hun. ’S how he got so fruit-loop. Even his dogs don’t trust him. He’s going out lamping later. Taking that lurcher you’re so fond of.’
‘Pricey.’
‘Tequila.’
‘Not for much longer. I’ve got to talk to him.’ She stood up and shrugged on her coat. ‘Can you mind the kids? Take them back to Nan’s if I’m longer than half an hour. My lift to Le Mill goes at six.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I thought Ash’d be back by now.’
‘Seeing a man about a bike, I heard.’ Janine gave her a big in-on-a-secret wink. ‘You’re a lucky girl, Carl, that’s all I’m saying. What wife wants a dog for Christmas when they can have a Ducati?’
‘A dog’s for life, Janine. Like a marriage.’ She stomped out.
*
In the garden, smashing his ’Splorer Stick against the shed, Ellis watched his mum striding purposefully into the estate.
Glancing into the house, where Aunt Janine was playing coochy-coo with his little brother, and his sister was gazing catatonically at In the Night Garden, he shouldered his stick
, like a rifle, and marched after her.
Sticking to the shadows, as he’d seen his dad do in his sniper games, Ellis followed her to the end of Quince Avenue and around the back past the garages, cutting along an alley and out into Apple Rise. At the far end there was a little row of terraces, a van parked outside with its tailgate open.
Ellis hung back behind a tree trunk as his mum marched up to the door and hammered on it. Dogs barked. Not Pricey, though. Ellis knew she was kept in a run further along the dead end, through double-padlocked gates in what had once been a stock yard. He’d gone as far as the gate before with his mum and they’d shouted for Pricey, but only heard muffled barking.
Now Mum was shouting at Uncle Jed, pointing at those gates and at him and at her phone. He leaned against his door frame and laughed.
Ellis crept closer, teeth chattering. The snow had melted a bit today, rubbish for snowballing, and was now freezing hard and slippery. He struggled to stay upright, then held his breath as his trainers lit up. But she hadn’t noticed.
‘I could shop you for this!’ his mum shouted.
‘For sending a dick shot? Who wouldn’t, Carl? You want a bit?’
‘Get lost, Jed. You know what I want. Ash had no right telling you about that dog.’
‘So you thought you’d come and blackmail me?’
‘It’s not blackmail. It’s just saying I know what a low-down scumbag you are. I’m appealing to your better nature.’
‘Do that to your own husband, love. He’s yours for better or worse, and he’s a lot worse than me.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘We all know he’s fencing.’
‘Says who?’
Ellis had made it behind the van doors now, ducking under one and creeping closer to watch through the blackened glass window of the other.
‘Whole estate knows he’s up to no good. He’s just like his dad was. You never met him, but that man was a hard bastard.’
