Assessing the situation, Alison reluctantly accepted Max’s hand, noting as she did so the faint purple scar on his left wrist and the crisply laundered cuff of his shirt.
‘Thank you,’ she said, brushing at the skirt of her dress to remove stray grass clippings. ‘I’m not used to wearing dresses; I usually wear jeans.’
‘I can’t think of anything worse,’ Max added with a smile. ‘Wearing denim in this heat. I would have thought shorts would be more in keeping at this time of year in Church Haywood.’
‘Oh no!’ Alison protested without thinking. ‘I never wear shorts!’
Presuming this ashen-faced young woman, dressed from top to toe in black, had considered his remark vaguely suggestive, Max let go of her hand and stepped back on to the middle of the path.
‘Well… as you’re back on terra firma, I can only apologize once again for startling you and bid you good evening.’
‘Good evening, Mr Craven.’
It was Max’s turn to register shock. How did she know his name? He’d specifically asked Constance not to tell anyone he was returning to the village. They would all find out sooner or later, but he had hoped for at least a few days’ respite from gossip and prying eyes.
‘I’m sorry, have we met before?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been away from the village for quite some time and only visit occasionally. You really must excuse me, I’m not terribly good at remembering faces... When I moved to London, you were probably only a teenager.’
For a brief moment staring down into Alison’s pale, upturned face with its flaxen bob, Max registered not Alison but his own dear, daughter Tara. Tara, whose mass of golden curls had tumbled to her shoulders, framing rosy-red cheeks and eyes the colour of cornflowers. Tara, who’d been such a such a picture of vitality, with so much to live for...
Blinking and swallowing hard, Max once again registered Alison’s tear-stained face and sombre appearance. Then he heard her murmur softly. ‘I’m Alison Benedict, Mr Craven. I knew your daughter. Tara and I were both at St Katherine’s. She was in the lower school when I was in the senior. I used to babysit for you and your wife. During the summer holidays your wife often asked me...’
Sensing Max’s confusion, Alison continued. ‘I used to keep an eye on Tara when your wife was playing tennis. We’d go for walks or I’d read to her. Of course, I’d better explain. You probably won’t know. I used to be Alison Webb... my mother remarried and we went to live in America.’
Alison! Alison Webb! Max could believe neither his eyes nor his ears. It was Alison who was with his daughter on the day she died... Alison Webb who had made Tara...
With his face now registering both contempt and disgust, Max Craven turned on his heels and strode back to his car. In the hedgerow at the back of the church car park, a solitary blackbird serenading his mate, flew up in alarm as the Saab roared into life an sped away.
Chapter 2
At Haywood Grange, Constance Henderson was stacking away the last of the tea things when she heard the resounding crunch of tyres on gravel. Quickly running to the front door, she found her brother still sitting at the wheel of his car. The bonnet, she noticed, was only inches away from her precious wisteria.
‘Max, dear, are you OK? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I feel as if I have, Constance. Why the hell didn’t you tell me Alison Webb was back in the neighbourhood? I stopped by at St Faith’s, thinking I’d be alone…’
‘But I did, Max! I told you I was helping with her mother’s funeral. I distinctly recall last week and again this afternoon... That’s why I suggested you delay your journey by an hour - until everyone had left - don’t you remember?’
Max grunted as he swung open the boot of the car to retrieve his luggage. Yes, his sister had said something to that effect. But how was he supposed to know who Alison Benedict was?
‘Well,’ cooed Constance, attempting to pacify her obviously disgruntled brother, ‘at least your timing is perfect; Bunty left about ten minutes ago. She sends her love, by the way, and other than George, no one else knows you’re coming.’
Max wasn’t listening; he was still concentrating on what his sister had said about perfect timing. Oh, that had been perfect all right, he thought to himself watching Constance fill the kettle. After ten years living away from Church Haywood, he’d chosen to visit St Faith’s churchyard at precisely the same time as the young woman he held responsible for his daughter’s death!
‘I thought we could have some cold chicken, new potatoes and salad, if that’s all right with you Max... unless you’d prefer something a bit more substantial.’
‘No. No, that’s fine by me. As a matter of fact I don’t feel particularly hungry. A sandwich would do perfectly well.’
‘Max Craven!’ Connie scolded, ‘Sandwiches might be all right in London in that dreadfully austere flat of yours, but at Haywood Grange we go in for proper meals. You look as if you could do with some decent food inside you. All those business lunches and take-away meals.’
‘Whose having a take-away?’ echoed a voice from the utility room.
‘No one, George, because as you know I absolutely refuse to have them in the house!’
‘Nagging you already, is she Max?’ said George Henderson, walking through to the kitchen in search of his slippers. He extended a large hand in greeting in his brother-in-law’s direction. ‘Good to see you again old chap. About time too, if I might say so.’
‘Let’s just say my bossy sister has already criticized the way I look and made less than complimentary remarks about my flat.’ Max said with a flicker of a smile. ‘But anyway, as I’ve sold it, she can’t complain any longer.’
‘Whew! Have you, by jove?’ George gave a low whistle. ‘Then it looks as if you really are serious about settling in Church Haywood after all.’
Placing the potatoes in a saucepan, Constance looked up in surprise. ‘What about your furniture? Surely you didn’t sell that too?’
She was aware of Max nodding before he continued, ‘By the sounds of it, it’s just as well; you obviously didn’t think much of my choice. The fellow who bought the flat said he’d also be interested in the furniture. Apart from a few pieces I put in store, I sold the lot.’
From where she was standing behind her brother, Constance shrugged her shoulders and cast a puzzled look in her husband’s direction.
‘Looks like you’ll be going from the sublime to the ridiculous, then,’ George announced, taking a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the fridge. ‘The au pair’s flat is pretty ghastly if you want my opinion. I told Connie we should do something with it before you arrived. She insisted it was probably best left for you to decide on colour schemes.’
‘As long as the au pair isn’t still living in it, I really don’t mind,’ Max grinned. ‘All I want is to be left in peace.’
‘Oh, she’s long since gone,’ Constance assured him. ‘In fact I don’t know why we still call it the au pair’s flat. Force of habit I suppose. No, we said goodbye to Heidi when the twins went off to university. How long ago is that?’
‘Seven years.’ George replied, handing Max a glass of wine. ‘Gracious, doesn’t time fly?
It certainly does, thought Max walking through to the conservatory. Although he didn’t really want to think about the Alison Webb that was – or the Alison Benedict that she’d become, presumably after she’d changed her surname to that of her stepfather. Nevertheless, he had to acknowledge how she’d changed in the ten years since he’d last seen her. Ten years ago she’d been a skinny schoolgirl with long, fine, hair in a ponytail, wearing the green and white uniform of St Katherine’s. Now she was a slender, attractive young woman in her early twenties.
Max took a long deep gulp of wine. And what of Tara, what would his daughter look like now had she still been alive? Reaching out unconsciously, Max crushed the leaves of a scented geranium in a pot by the conservatory doors. In his present state of mind, he thought it should be Alison Benedict buried in the church
yard, not his daughter!
Aware of the lemon perfume wafting in the air from beneath Max’s grasp, Connie announced. ‘I see you’ve gone straight for the scented geraniums, just as you did when you were a boy. Mother always knew when you’d been hiding in the conservatory. By the way, what did you do with the cuttings I brought down for you the last time I came to London?’
Max’s guilty silence said it all. Her brother had obviously forgotten to water them. Even now, they were probably shrivelled in their pots, withering on some corporation tip.
‘Definitely not the green-fingered member of the family, are you, Max. I wonder if we’ll ever make a country gentleman of you.’
‘Constance… looking round this conservatory and from what I can see of the garden, I would say you more than make up for my failings’
‘Why not just pop down and have a look at the rose arbour, then? Mr Jennings has been helping me restock it. Supper will only be about ten minutes. I’ll get George to give you a call when it’s ready.’
Leaving the conservatory with its brightly coloured pots of fuschias, begonias and geraniums, Max stepped into the cool of the evening and watched the faintest slick of setting sun disappear behind an avenue of laburnums. He breathed in deeply, savouring each lung full of clear, fresh air. What a contrast, compared to the choking heat of the past few weeks in London. It was, he decided - despite his shock confrontation with Alison Benedict - great to be home.
‘Max bumped into Alison in the churchyard,’ Constance whispered to her husband as she laid the table for supper. ‘If you’d seen his face when he arrived. I thought for one minute he was going to turn right round and head straight back to London.’
‘He didn’t, though, did he?’ replied George, carving the chicken.
‘No, thank goodness. Nevertheless I’m convinced he still thinks it was Alison’s fault Tara was, well... you know, even after all this time.’
‘That’s preposterous, Connie! You know as well as I do that can’t be true; you really ought to tell Max one of these days.’
‘I know dear,’ she said, putting her finger to her lips, ‘but not now. I can see Max coming back up the garden. Let’s wait a bit, shall we? and see what happens. Perhaps it might also be an idea too to ring Bunty. I’ll do it first thing in the morning.’
*
Unable to sleep due to a combination of birdsong, brilliant sunshine pouring through the faded chintz curtains and Jasper, Bunty’s boisterous wire-haired terrier, whining and scratching outside her bedroom door, Alison got up to face Day One of her new life. From downstairs came the muted tones of ‘Farming Today’ and the sound of running water.
‘Up already, Alison? I expect it was that damn dog of mine whining away outside your door. I was hoping you might have stayed in bed for an extra hour or two after the trauma of the past few weeks
Alison shook her head and patted Jasper warmly. ‘Don’t be too hard on him, Bunty. I was awake anyway. Besides, it’s such a lovely day. Who wants to stay in bed when we’ve glorious weather like this.’
‘Oh, there’s plenty I could mention,’ said Bunty, filling the kettle. ‘Still, you’d best make the most of it. They’re forecasting rain before too long.’
‘Then I shan’t mind at all,’ Alison replied. ‘I’ve got to clear out Baker’s Halt. The rent’s only paid for another two weeks, remember. I’m sure I heard Mr Jessop say there are new tenants ready to move in August.’
‘You know I’ll help at Baker’s Halt if you want, and that you’re welcome to stay on here for as long as you like.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Bunty. And I may well take you up on it. At least until I find a job and sort myself out.’
‘It would appear you’re not the only one sorting yourself out. Connie told me a couple of days ago that her brother Max is coming back to Church Haywood. It would appear he’s had enough of London. Of course it’s supposed to be a secret - Max doesn’t want to set tongues wagging just yet and wants to be left in peace. I’m sure Connie won’t mind my telling you.’
‘Oh, you needn’t have worried about giving away Mr Craven’s secrets. I’ve already seen him.’
‘What! When? You didn’t say my dear.’
‘I saw him in the churchyard yesterday evening. When I went back to Mother’s grave to look at the floral tributes, Mr Craven was there.’
‘You recognised him, then?’ Bunty asked, pouring water into a large earthenware pot. ‘How did he look? And did he recognise you?’
‘I suppose he didn’t really look all that different from ten years ago. A little older and more careworn perhaps…’
‘I’m not surprised, after all the tragedy he’s had to endure. First Tara and then Virginia and the house ... It’s a wonder poor Max isn’t grey all over.’
‘He’s certainly not that! Unless he’s using that product they advertise on TV, I’d say Mr Craven hasn’t a grey hair on his head. I wouldn’t say that about his face, though.’
‘You mean he’s got a beard and it’s grey!’ Bunty said in alarm. ‘That must make him look very peculiar indeed.’
Alison laughed for the first time in days. ‘No, Bunty, you’re jumping to conclusions. Mr Craven hasn’t got a beard, grey or otherwise. It’s his face that looked grey.’
‘Hmph! That’s hardly surprising, shutting himself away for ten years in that austere flat of his in London. Connie’s been on at him for ages to come back home. She said it was like a bolt out of the blue when he rang. I don’t suppose he told you why he’s come back?’
‘Hardly, in fact he didn’t say much at all. He was coolly polite - as I remember from before. It was only when I...’
‘When you what, Alison, dear?’
‘When I told him who I was. That I used to babysit for Tara. It was just like Mother used to say… “if looks could kill".’
Bunty patted Alison’s shoulder. ‘Surely not, my dear. I know Max always had a certain way about him. Perhaps you were just imagining it. I expect he was simply surprised to see you after all these years.’
Alison shrugged her shoulders and sipped at her tea. ‘Perhaps. I probably was the last person he expected to see in that corner of the churchyard. Speaking of which, I’d better get a move on. I want to make a note of everyone who sent flowers. I also promised Oliver and Jasper I’d take some photos of the wreaths they sent. Jasper was convinced the girl who’d taken their order in New York wasn’t concentrating.’
‘That’s hardly surprising,’ Bunty remarked, sitting down at the table. ‘I ask you, how can any female concentrate when confronted by that gorgeous stepbrother of yours. I managed to drag Connie off to the cinema after Christmas to see his last film. What a body! You don’t find many of those in Church Haywood! Such a pity I have to make do with his namesake!’ Bunty poured tea into her saucer and placed it on the floor for her own Jasper, who licked at it greedily and noisily.
‘I’d be prepared to bet your four-legged Jasper is far more faithful than the two-legged variety I know.’ Alison said thoughtfully, stroking Jasper behind the ear.
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, loveable as he is, Jasper’s left a trail of broken hearts all across America. I’m glad he’s just my stepbrother.’
‘And what about Oliver?’
‘Oh, he’s the complete opposite. Loyal and true to Brunnhilde, the one love of his life, even though she’s a bit ungainly and was always getting in the way when I was last in New York.’
Bunty absent-mindedly stirred her tea. ‘A big girl, is she?’
‘You could say that,’ Alison said, with a smile. ‘I was referring to Oliver’s cello!’
Bunty chortled out loud, causing her own Jasper to stir from where he’d been sitting at Alison’s feet. ‘Brunnhilde, of course! I knew it was something Wagnerian. How stupid of me, somehow I was convinced it was Isolde. Mmm, when you think about it, Brunnhilde’s quite an apt name for a cello. Mind you, it always amazes me how musicians manage to get their arms and legs around s
uch instruments.’
‘One thing’s for sure,’ announced Allison, edging away from the table, ‘with my leg, the cello would definitely be out of the question.’
Bunty studied the pained expression on Alison’s face. ‘Leg playing up a bit, is it, dear? You’ve probably been overdoing things.’
‘I doubt it. Let’s just say I get good days and bad days. There are days - weeks even - when it doesn’t bother me at all. It’s the scar tissue more than anything. Sometimes when it’s damp... and didn’t you say we’re in for some rain? In which case I’d better get a move on. I’ll have a quick shower and then get on my way.’
Slipping into her jeans, gingham blouse and sweatshirt, Alison picked up a note pad and pen and headed for the back door. There she found Jasper looking up expectantly
‘Do you want to...?’ She got no further; Jasper’s paws were already resting on the stool beneath the shelf where Bunty kept the washing powders and the dog’s lead. ‘Is it okay if I take Jasper with me, Bunty? I promise I’ll make sure he doesn’t do you-know-what in the churchyard.’
‘That’s fine by me,’ a voice called. ‘Just remember to take the spare key. I might pop over to the Grange. I think I left my jacket there yesterday. I was so warm clearing up after the funeral, I quite forgot all about it.’
Mention of her mother’s funeral brought a lump to Alison’s throat. Hooking Jasper’s lead onto his collar, she double-checked that she had notepad, pen and camera and headed down the garden path in silence.
‘Poor girl,’ said Bunty, shaking her head. ‘Whatever will she do?’
*
Hearing the clock chime eight as she approached the main footpath of St Faith’s, Alison was reminded of her last visit here only twelve hours earlier. This time she looked about her before walking to the freshly dug grave and seeing no one in sight, told Jasper to sit while she wrote down the names and messages on each card of condolence
‘Such a profusion of flowers everywhere, Mother,’ she said under her breath, ‘and not a single violet.’ Still, as she reminded herself, thinking of her mother’s favourite flowers, summer wasn’t exactly the right time of year for violets.
Secrets From The Past Page 2
