by Janet Woods
Meggie sympathized, since she got the same treatment, but she didn’t think it wise to encourage the cleaning lady by agreeing out loud. Just as well because Grandmother Elliot appeared.
‘Make your bed, dear. And don’t leave the sheets all creased. I must teach you how to do neat hospital corners. When you’ve finished you can make the boys’ beds and pick up their clothes.’
‘My mother wants the boys to learn to keep their own room tidy.’
‘Boys aren’t very good at domestic chores.’
‘Mother said that’s an excuse, and they’ll never be good at anything domestic if they don’t practise it.’
‘Did she now? As far as I’m concerned the men are the breadwinners, and the women stay at home and provide a comfortable environment for them to relax in.’
‘Times are changing, Grandmother Elliot.’
Meggie was subjected to a long stare that would have been intimidating, had she been easily intimidated. ‘Yes, they are, but answering back is still a tiresome trait, especially when it comes from a child. It must be the Sangster in you coming out.’
Meggie’s ears pricked up. Any information was better than none, even if it was of a mean and gossipy value. Grandmother Elliot didn’t disappoint her.
‘Richard Sangster always had a smart tongue on him, right from when he was small. But then, his mother came from a long line of Scottish aristocrats and the Sangsters always thought they were a cut above the rest of us. You would be aware of your Sinclair inheritance, I suppose?’
Meggie learned a lot from listening to gossip, and she’d heard the Sinclair inheritance mentioned a couple of times, when she wasn’t supposed to be listening to the adults’ conversation. She muttered in a vague, casual manner. ‘Oh yes . . . the inheritance.’
Her curiosity was gnawing a hole through her skull now. What about the inheritance?
‘Foxglove House used to be such a lively place when Margaret Sinclair Sangster was alive. That was before the last war, of course, though goodness knows, we seem to be heading for another one. After Margaret’s accident the inheritance went downhill, I understand. Now the house is shuttered tight. Goodness knows, you’d think the Sinclair trust would let the place instead of allowing it to run down. When it becomes yours, you’ll never be able to afford to keep the house up as it should be kept up.’
When it became hers?
The phone rang. ‘That’s probably the gardener. I want him to take that lilac out and plant a tree in its place.’
Drat Matthew Bugg for ringing at such an inconvenient time, just when she was learning something new! ‘My mother loves that lilac, you know. The fragrance drifts into her bedroom when it’s in bloom.’ Grandmother Elliot wasn’t listening, and anyway, her mother would sort it out in her own way, once she was home.
When Foxglove House became hers? The snippet of information stuck in her mind. Should she ask Grandmother Elliot to tell her more?
But she had gone to answer the telephone, and Meggie heard her say, ‘Oh, it’s you, Barbara. Thank goodness I can sit down and have an intelligent conversation. I’d forgotten how tiresome children can be.’
‘So could grandmothers,’ Meggie whispered darkly under her breath.
Shadow appeared, carrying his leash in his mouth, his tail wagging, and not in the least bit shamed by his beggarly behaviour.
‘Sit,’ she said, and went up to see the boys, the dog following closely after her in case she forgot him. He wagged his tail when she frowned. ‘I thought I told you to sit.’
He sat.
‘I’m taking Shadow for a walk, boys . . . coming?’
Her brothers were busy, engrossed in what they were doing, which was carefully pasting bits and pieces on a card . . . a welcome home gift for their mother. It would join the other cards they’d made her over the years, their felicitations carefully captured in a box that once contained her mother’s favourite Oxfords . . . little scraps of love hoarded in a shoe box.
The boys looked up at her, saying together, ‘Must we?’
‘It’s not compulsory.’ In fact she’d rather have the freedom of going out alone. ‘Leave some space on that card for me to write a message, if you would.’ She fetched the letter for the major and headed out into the day, Shadow still carrying his leash.
The stark lines of winter were beginning to paint over what remained of autumn. There was a faint smokiness in the air, as if someone was burning the dead leaves. Those that still littered the ground were picked up by miniature hurricanes and swirled about in whirling blurs of ochre.
Foxglove House was her inheritance? Was it possible? Yes, it probably was, she thought. If it had belonged to her father then it would have been passed on to her. What about Major Henry, though? Her fingers ran over the envelope in her pocket.
She slowed when Foxglove House came into view. It stood tall in its neglected grounds, and cast a long shadow. She imagined its dark and dusty interior, the probing gleams of light momentarily piercing the cracks in the shutters, but not lingering long enough to allow the ghosts to escape and introduce themselves.
The house was a closed book to her, yet it contained her story. One day she’d discover what it was and record it in her diary. She might even write a book. She liked writing.
Nutting Cottage was a bit of a walk, so she took the leash from the dog and picked up pace. She should have borrowed her Uncle Chad’s old bicycle, but then, the inner tubes would probably have perished after all this time.
A thin trickle of smoke came from Nutting Cottage chimney. It was a pretty cottage with roses growing round the door. Her mother owned it and Major Henry lived in it. Yet the two never spoke. How odd it all was.
It was with some trepidation that she knocked at the door. She felt like a traitor to her mother. There must be a good reason why she would not allow this man to intrude into their lives. Alarm speared her. What if he was a murderer?
Her heart pounded when the door opened and she felt like running. At the same time, her feet refused to move.
He was wearing a russet red cardigan with brown plus fours, grey socks and carpet slippers. The brightness of his cardigan surprised her. It seemed young and flamboyant, as though he hadn’t noticed himself growing old inside it. In comparison, his pink scalp shone through thin white hair.
She didn’t know what to say, but he did, and his voice was kind of clipped. ‘Hello. It’s Margaret, isn’t it? I’ve seen you walk past now and then. How lovely. I wondered when you’d find time to visit a lonely old man.’
He stood aside to allow her entrance and her feet obeyed the gesture. Shadow glued himself to her side, and the cottage swallowed them when the major shut the door. It smelled fustily of burned on grease and stale sardines, as if the windows were never opened to let the fresh air in. ‘You know me then?’ she said.
‘Of course . . . of course. It’s Richard’s girl . . . my . . . granddaughter.’
There, that had confirmed what she’d always known, deep down.
‘I’ve brought you a letter that came from America,’ she said, as he ushered her into the sitting room, and she placed it on the sideboard. ‘The postman delivered it to our house.’
Shadow commandeered the worn, multicoloured length of the hearthrug, turning round three times in some doggy ritual before sinking on it with a sigh.
‘It was nice of you to deliver it personally. You’ll stay and have tea, won’t you? There’s fruit cake.’
‘Thank you, sir, but I should be getting along. I’m walking the dog.’
He raised an eyebrow as he took in Shadow. His eyes were astute as he gazed at her, and he offered her a conspiratorial smile that made her feel slightly uncomfortable. ‘I don’t think the dog will mind, will you, boy?’ Shadow raised his head to look at him and thumped his tail before going back to sleep again. ‘The thing is, will you? I’ll go and make the tea. You make up your mind whether to stay or go. The door’s not locked.’
She gazed around the room she was i
n. There was nothing sinister about the comfortable chairs and occasional tables. An upright piano fitted in an alcove with a small display of photographs on top.
There was a picture of her father in his uniform. He looked handsome. There was a close up of a woman’s face. She picked it up and gazed at it. The woman was perfectly breathtaking.
To Henry. Love always, Rosemary Mortimer, was dashed in black ink across the bottom. That was the name on the back of the envelope she’d brought him.
She was still looking at it when she heard him returning. Quickly she set the photograph back on the piano and took her seat. He carried two cups of tea and slices of fruitcake arranged on a plate, all balanced on a small tray. Setting it on the small table between them, he seated himself in a wing-backed chair.
They stared at each other for a moment, then he said, ‘You look like your mother.’
‘My mother thinks I look like my father.’
He huffed with laughter, but it had a hollow sound. ‘Who do you think you resemble?’
‘Myself . . . Meggie Elliot.’
‘You’re a Sangster,’ he pointed out.
She didn’t want to take sides. ‘Yes. Dr Elliot adopted me, and gave me his name.’
‘Why?’
She laughed at the rapid exchange between them. He was sharp-minded for an old person. ‘I don’t know why. I imagine my mother wanted him to. Perhaps it was because my aunt and uncle grew up in the same house and they’re called Carr. It would be awfully confusing having people with three different surnames living in the same house.’
‘Have you asked her?’
‘Good Lord, no. Mother would bite my head off.’ She nibbled the edge of the fruit cake. It was stale. ‘Who are the Sinclairs?’
‘Ah . . . so that’s why you’re here. You want to know about your legacy.’
‘Is there one?’
‘Yes . . . the Sinclairs are your grandmother’s side of the family. Goodness knows what’s left of it now. The Depression is deepening, I believe. You’d have to contact the lawyer who handles it. His name is Simon Stone of Anderson and Stone.’ He stood, opened a drawer and rummaged around inside it. ‘Aha! I knew I had one.’ He handed her the lawyer’s card. ‘Keep that in case you need to contact them. There’s still the house, of course, but they had to let the gardener and the housekeeper go. If the maintenance isn’t kept up the building will deteriorate.’
‘Are you talking about Foxglove House?’
He smiled. ‘I am. You should ask your mother about it.’
The house belonged to her then. Lor, what a monstrosity to inherit! She didn’t know whether the knowledge was welcome or not. ‘My mother won’t tell me anything about the past. She won’t even discuss it. If she forgets she never talks about it, and mentions it by mistake, she clams up like an oyster. It’s unfair!’
‘Yes . . . I suppose you would think that.’ He gave a soft chuckle. ‘Oysters don’t clam up. Clams do.’
‘What do oysters do then?’
‘They close.’
‘Oh . . . I see.’ She didn’t really. If clams could clam, why couldn’t oysters oyst? She must ask her stepfather. He loved ridiculous questions that gave him an excuse to come up with ridiculous answers.
They exchanged a grin and she ventured to say, ‘Grandfather . . . I swear I won’t ask you anything personal, but if you happened to tell me anything I shouldn’t know, wild bears wouldn’t make me tell on you.’
He patted her on the knee. ‘You’re a girl after my own heart. In the war I used to be in intelligence, you know. I could show Foxglove House to you, I suppose. I still have a key somewhere.’
She smiled at that, saying eagerly, ‘When?’
‘How about next week? After school on Thursday, would be a good day.’
She nodded, gulping down her tea, along with her disappointment. She’d rather have seen over the house now, and a week seemed as long as a year.
Swallowing her disappointment, she stood, feeding the stale cake to Shadow at the same time. When she held out her hand to the major, he shook it.
‘I’d better go before someone comes looking for me, I suppose. You won’t tell anyone I was here, will you? If my family finds out they won’t let me visit you again.’
‘Good grief . . . I won’t breathe a word. There’s no love lost between your mother and myself as it is . . . still, that’s water under the bridge, and best if it stays there. It will be our little secret.’
Rather disappointing, since she was itching to ask him what the trouble had been about. He was so sweet though, and she couldn’t imagine why her mother didn’t like him. But it was early days.
‘I’ll leave the back door to the house open next Thursday. There are some unshuttered windows upstairs, to allow the light in. But you’d better bring a torch,’ he said.
‘Goodbye, sir, you needn’t get up.’
He lowered his voice, making it sound like a game. ‘I thought I might go to the gate to make sure the coast is clear. You can’t be too careful . . . they might have spies posted.’
She laughed. ‘Don’t forget to read your letter. It’s from America. Could I have the stamp when you’ve read it? My brothers save stamps and they haven’t got many.’
‘Take the stamp with you. The letter is from my second wife . . . Rosemary Mortimer. She ran away to Hollywood and acts in films.’
Meggie couldn’t stop her eyes widening. ‘Gosh . . . how awfully thrilling to have been married to a film star.’
‘Rosie isn’t a star. From what I can gather she’s had a few bit parts. And, believe me, dear, it wasn’t all that thrilling being married to her. Looks mean nothing.’
Tearing the stamp from the envelope he handed it to her and threw the unread letter on to the fire.
It seemed like a decade until Thursday came round.
Meggie’s mother arrived home on the Monday and her mouth tightened a little when she saw the rearranged furniture and the pristine tidiness of her home.
‘How clean and tidy it looks, but you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,’ she said, sounding so warmly sincere that Grandmother Elliot smiled smugly. Meggie marvelled that her mother could lie so well.
Meggie hugged her, firstly, because she was glad to have her home, and secondly because she felt a twinge of conscience that she was going to deceive her. Still, it couldn’t be helped. Her hug was abandoned when the boys came racing in and took over.
Grandmother left final instructions for Meggie – to make sure she did her share of the chores – and for the boys – to mind they kept quiet while their mother rested.
Everyone hugged each other with the relief of parting when Denton drove his mother home.
The atmosphere disappeared with her and her mother gave a big smile the next day. ‘It doesn’t feel like my home, but Grandmother Elliot meant well.’
‘Shall I make some tea while you rest?’ Meggie offered.
Her mother picked up an ornament and placed it back in its former position, and then rearranged the recently colour-coordinated cushions into some sort of confusion.
Outside the floorboards creaked. She smiled and punched a dent in the largest cushion before she threw it at the armchair. ‘Denton likes that one for his back. As for resting, I’m through with it. You’ve no idea how tedious it is to lie in a hospital ward. Your father was an absolute bully. Everyone jumped to do his bidding, and I had to do as I was told. I’ve quite gone off him.’
‘It won’t do you any good, since you’re stuck with me,’ Denton said, grinning as he popped his head round the door and blew her a kiss.
‘I might go outside and do some weeding, Dr Elliot. Do I have your permission?’
‘Yes, my love, but take things easy else you’ll end up back in hospital.’
‘What happened to my lilac?’
He looked puzzled. ‘What lilac?’
‘You mean you’ve never noticed the lilac bush under our bedroom window?’
‘I thought it w
as a fir tree.’ He spread his hands in mystification and left for the hospital – but not before offering Meggie a wink. It was clear he had no intention of being put in the position of having to take sides.
Livia sighed. ‘Can you believe that?’
Meggie giggled. ‘No . . . he was teasing you. Grandmother Elliot insisted that Mr Bugg dig the lilac up and plant a tree in its place. I tried to stop her but she insisted on having it her own way.’
Her mother’s lips pursed. ‘I see. She means well, but I do wish she’d stop interfering.’
‘Mr Bugg kept the lilac roots and planted them in a pot. He said it could be replanted elsewhere and it would grow again in the spring.’
‘I brought that from Foxglove House and grew it from a cutting. It was to remind me of your father. He loved the scent of lilac.’
Which was why Grandmother Elliot wanted to move it. She probably saw it as an insult to her son.
‘Doesn’t Daddy mind?’
‘No . . . it was Denton’s idea. Richard was his best friend.’
Wasn’t she a living reminder for them both of Richard Sangster? Meggie’s smile faded as her mother headed to the telephone and dialled the gardener’s number.
By evening, a considerably shortened shrub was reinstated in its original position and the fir was planted in the pot.
‘It will serve us for Christmas if it survives,’ Livia said.
Thursday finally came. There was an air of waiting about Foxglove House. Downstairs, stripes of light and shadow slowly moved as the lowering sun sent dim and dusty beams of light through the shutters.
Dust sheets covered the furniture, some of them reaching out scarily, like ghosts, as though they wished to touch her or claim her as one of them.
But she didn’t feel as though she belonged to this house – the home of the current Sinclair heir. Her house! She’d been kept in ignorance of this family, a name that was now hers alone, as though she’d become a family of one. Resentment intruded. Her grandfather explained that the house wasn’t really hers. It could never be hers, even though she was tied to it. She could never sell it, just pass it on to the next Sinclair if there was one. Was she to meekly assume responsibility because some dead ancestor had declared she must? Everything in her rebelled against it.
