Dealing with the last cellophane-wrapped spray, still moist with morning dew, Alison’s gaze drifted across the assorted headstones to another familiar grave. This however was not newly dug, nor was it covered in flowers. It belonged to Tara Craven, her dear companion of ten long summers ago.
Alison eased herself up from the grass and walked towards the grave, remembering as she did so long, hot, carefree summer days. Days of listening to Tara’s animated chatter, reminiscent of the brook that gurgled past the old mill and under the clapper bridge, or else watching her play with the endless litters of kittens at Fenner’s Farm. At other times they’d simply wandered aimlessly without a care in the world, through flower-laden fields and shady woodlands until...
‘Oh, Tara,’ she sighed, kneeling by the simple yet neatly tended grave. ‘It shouldn’t have happened. It simply shouldn’t have happened! Why didn’t you stop when I called. If only…’
Without thinking, Alison ran her hand up and down her right thigh. Even through the thick denim jeans she could still feel the raised scar tissue. She shivered; it was as if she was being watched. Jasper! Where was Jasper? In her anxiety to visit Tara’s grave, she’d completely forgotten Bunty’s dog!
Filled with panic, Alison turned to look for Jasper, only to see him bounding towards someone standing by the beech thicket. Desperate to prevent the dog from extending his usual greeting of depositing muddy paws on every person he met, Alison struggled to her feet. Cursing her leg, she was just in time to see Jasper’s tail wagging furiously as he slewed to a halt at the feet of the only other occupant of St Faith’s churchyard. But not in time, however, to stop him depositing muddied paw prints all over the beige-linen-clad legs of... Max Craven!
‘Jasper, you bad dog!’ she cried, reaching clumsily for the lead where it trailed in the still damp grass. ‘Mr Craven, I’m terribly sorry. He must be pleased to see you. He never takes much notice of me when I call him, I’m afraid.’
‘Then may I suggest Miss… er... Benedict,’ Max snapped, rubbing at his trousers, ‘that you get your dog booked in for some obedience lessons, and the sooner the better!’
‘But Jasper’s not my...’
Alison however got no further. Jasper’s most recent acquaintance brushed past them without comment and strode angrily to his daughter’s grave. There, plucking at the small spray of wild flowers, newly picked by Alison, he flung them into the nearby bin.
With a stifled sob and clutching at Jasper’s lead - lest he should run away again, Alison hurried back to Keeper’s Cottage as quickly as she could. She was surprised to find Bunty hanging out a selection of tea towels and tablecloths she’d taken to the Grange for the funeral tea.
‘Oh! I didn’t expect to find you here Bunty. I thought you said you were going to fetch your jacket.’
‘There’s no need, my dear. Connie rang just after you left. She’s given my jacket to Max. I think she wanted to get him out of the house for a bit. Apparently he’s offered to call at the post office for her and said he’ll drop it in on the way back.’
In which case, Alison decided, I’d better make sure I’m not around when Max Craven comes to call! Mention of the post office and the note pad in her pocket reminded her of the thank you letters she needed to write. If she went upstairs to her room, she could keep out of the way. Two hostile meetings with Max Craven in less than twenty-four hours she concluded, were more than enough!
Unfortunately for Alison, things didn’t go quite according to plan. From down in the kitchen came an exasperated yell.
‘Oh Jasper! You naughty boy! Look what you’ve done!’
Hurrying downstairs, Alison found Bunty on bended knees picking up pieces of broken glass in the middle of a pool of milk.
‘Careful!’ she warned. ‘There’s broken glass everywhere. I was just going to put the bottle back in the fridge when he came bounding towards me. Put the little b... outside will you, I don’t want bloodied paws and vets bills as well.’
Taking hold of Jasper’s collar, Alison opened the back door and gently pushed the dog into the garden before reaching for a cloth to help with the mopping up operation.
‘Thank you, dear,’ said Bunty, patting salt and pepper home-permed curls back into place. ‘Now there’s only one problem; we’ve no milk left and I was going to make baked custard tarts.’
‘That’s not a problem,’ Alison replied without thinking. ‘I’ll pop along to the village and get some. I need more stamps and I really ought to get these photos developed for Jasper and Oliver. This time, if you don’t mind, I won’t take our four-legged friend.’
Bunty ignored the whining and scratching at the back door. ‘No, he can stay in the dog house where he belongs - which isn’t easy, is it,’ she grinned, ‘considering he lives indoors and then mostly on my bed!’
Chapter 3
Arriving in the village, Alison was on the point of going to the post office, it being easier to get her stamps before buying the milk, when she saw him for the second time that morning. Max Craven! She’d completely forgotten he was going to the post office for his sister.’
Cautiously slipping into a shop doorway, she waited until Max closed the door of the post office behind him. Only then did she consider it safe to cross the road to the small supermarket. From there, she could pretend to shop and at the same time, keep her eyes peeled for a certain person to reappear.
When the coast was clear and Max walked in the direction of the off licence, Alison - clutching the cartons of milk - zigzagged her way carefully behind the row of parked cars towards the post office. It being pension day, there was already quite a queue. A distinct hum of animated conversation filled the air.
‘And I’m telling you that was Max Craven,’ an elderly voice insisted to her companion. ‘Don’t you remember? Mrs Henderson’s brother, her from the Grange? He visits from time to time, always keeping himself to himself mind you. It was his daughter who died after that dreadful accident and then his wife…’
Nodding in recognition, an equally elderly woman, wearing a dress of deep purple and lilac swirls, continued. ‘Why, yes! Of course I do now. He was so handsome when he was a young man...’
‘And still is Rose,’ a voice broke in. ‘Still handsome and certainly still young if you compare him to the likes of you and me. Let’s see... I suppose he must be almost forty. Unlike us, he won’t be collecting his pension for a while!’
Rose smiled and pushed her pension card across the counter.
‘Well Rose, what’s the latest gossip?’ a bespectacled young man enquired from behind the counter. ‘Who’s run off with whom? Who’s having a baby and who’s got their house on the market?’
‘Don’t you be so cheeky, young Alan! Can I help it if I know what’s going on in Church Haywood? For your information, the only bit of news, apart from Mr Craven coming back to the village after all this time, is that Mr Jessop is thinking of selling that old stable block of his.’
‘Is he, indeed? I don’t suppose you know what he’s going to do with it?’
Rose shrugged her shoulders. ‘I suppose it depends on planning permission and things like that. Ann Jessop said it would probably be too big for one dwelling, but if it was turned into units... you know a bit like the art and craft centre at Little Harberry?’
‘That’s all right,’ proclaimed Rose’s companion, ‘as long as they let it to locals. We don’t want none of those outsiders coming in from town, pushing up property prices and trying to change Church Haywood customs.’
‘I wasn’t aware Church Haywood had that many old customs left,’ said Alan passing Rose her pension money.’
Listening in on their conversation, Alison’s ears pricked up at the mention of Mr Jessop. It was Mr Jessop who also owned Baker’s Halt. He seemed a decent enough sort of man, but where were the stables Rose and her companion had been talking about? She knew the units at Little Harberry and had often gone there with her mother before the cancer took hold. Placing the books of stamps careful
ly in her purse, Alison stepped back into the brilliant sunshine just as Max Craven was opening his car door. In his hand he carried a small posy of pink rosebuds.
‘So that’s what he drives,’ she said to herself eyeing the sleek, black Saab 9000. ‘I’m not surprised. If they say dogs can look like their owners,’ here she thought of the wiry-haired Bunty and Jasper, ‘why can’t drivers look like their cars?’
Considering Rose’s earlier comments about Max Craven, Alison concluded, despite his dark and abrupt manner, he really was an extremely good-looking man... if you liked that type of course. The problem was, owing to circumstances beyond her control, Alison Benedict had as yet been denied the opportunity of discovering what her ‘type’ was.
Pushing thoughts of Max Craven to the back of her mind, Alison’s gaze once more alighted on Rose’s purple dress, which in turn made her think of her mother’s favourite flowers. And, although, there’d been little chance of obtaining violets in time for the funeral, perhaps if she went in to ask Penny if it were possible to make a very special order, now that time was no longer an issue…
Opening the door of the florists, Alison breathed in the heavily scented air where long-stemmed red roses, delicate sprays of freesia and clusters of alstroemeria stood upright in buckets. Something about the myriad colours reminded her of Church Haywood’s May Day festival. It was a time when the local children, grouped by age and each carrying a floral decorated garden cane, danced through the village to the Maypole on the village green. ‘That has to be one of Church Haywood’s customs Rose was referring to,’ she murmured, bending down to savour the perfume from a deep, red rose.
‘Pardon?’ enquired Penny coming from the back of the shop.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Penny. I was talking to myself again,’ Alison explained. ‘I overheard Rose and her friend discussing village customs when I was in the post office. The flowers... they reminded me of May Day.’
‘And the next village festival - after the summer fete - will be the harvest supper,’ Penny continued. ‘That has to be one of my favourite times of year. All those wonderful chrysanthemums of russet, gold and ochre; they seem to last so much longer than these summer flowers and are perfect for wedding and funeral displays.’
Penny put a hand to her mouth in embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry, Alison. Me and my big mouth! I was quite forgetting. It was yesterday, wasn’t it? How did it go? I hope the flowers were all right.’
‘Yes, they were beautiful. That’s one of the reasons I’m here... to thank you... and also to ask if you think there’s even the remotest chance of getting any violets for Mother. She loved them so much…’
Penny shook her head sadly. ‘I’m really sorry, Alison. I did try ringing round all my suppliers. As I said before, it’s not really the time of year for violets. And, even if I had managed to locate some, chances are they would have been flown in from abroad. I’d have to buy a whole box and they’d be…’
‘Very expensive?’ Alison concluded.
‘Now if you wanted baby rosebuds,’ Penny added brightly, pointing to a multi-coloured display in the far corner of the shop. ‘I can get all colours of those. They’re not as delicate as violets, I know, but they’re very pretty and seem to last an awful long time. In fact a man came in just before you and asked me to arrange a posy. I’m sure he said it was for a grave. I wondered if it was for your mother’s. He mentioned something about not arriving back in Church Haywood until after the funeral and I...’
‘No!’ Alison broke in, remembering Max Craven getting into his car. ‘They won’t be for my mother’s grave, I expect they’ll be for T... someone else’s.’
Yes, thought Alison, dejectedly leaving the shop. I expect they’re to replace the flowers I placed on Tara’s grave this morning. The wild flowers Tara and I used to weave into our hair, when we were young, are obviously far too common and ordinary for Max Craven.
At Keeper’s Cottage, Bunty was doing battle with an unwieldy ball of pastry, while at the same time trying to keep an eye on Jasper from the open kitchen window.
‘You can whine and bark all you like Jasper. You are not coming back inside this kitchen until everything is safely in the oven.’
Sensing defeat, the young dog gave up and, with his attention distracted by a small tortoiseshell butterfly, hovering above pale pink blackberry blossom, he bounded towards the bottom of the garden. Bunty smiled at his antics and plunged her hands deep into the stone flour jar, ready to sprinkle both pastry board and rolling pin with flour.
As if on cue, the doorbell rang and Bunty, who was mid-flour dispersal, sent a cloud of white all over the table and kitchen floor.
‘Blast!’ she cried. ‘Who on earth? It can’t be Alison, I told her to take the spare key...’ Grabbing a red and white check tea-towel, Bunty rubbed the surplus flour from her hands and hurried to the front door.
Though ages since she’d last seen her visitor, Bunty would have recognised the sleek dark hair and finely chiselled jaw anywhere.
‘Max! Max Craven, you rogue! Why have you left it so long?’
If Max appeared to mind being engulfed by Bunty’s generous frame, while his chest was crushed against her ample bosom, it certainly didn’t show. Instead he kissed her warmly on both cheeks before holding her at arm’s length and handing over her jacket.
‘Hello, Bunty. How nice to see you again. You haven’t changed a bit, and before you start nagging me for staying away too long, let me tell you Constance has already done it for you.’
Bunty smiled. ‘Has she indeed? Well, that’s what big sisters are for. Now come along in and tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself. I’ve some scones in the oven and I’ll put the kettle on for coffee. You have got time, I take it?’
‘Coffee would be wonderful. I’ve all the time in the world,’ Max replied, following her through to the chaotic kitchen. ‘That is, according to my sister. She thinks I should have a long rest, but quite how she expects me to make my living is another matter.’
‘I’m sure a couple of weeks doing nothing, won’t do you any harm.’ Bunty motioned Max to a Windsor chair and reached for the kettle. ‘Oh no! Wait a minute!’ But it was too late, Max had already sat down, and the seat of his beige linen trousers, were already covered in a fine layer of flour.
‘Sorry Max.’ Bunty apologized, rubbing vigorously at the trousers with the tea-towel. I shook flour everywhere when the doorbell rang. I hope the trousers won’t be ruined. Such lovely linen too.’
I shouldn’t worry about them too much, Bunty. I’ve already had some young woman’s uncontrollable dog, plastering me with muddy footprints today. I’m sure the addition of a bit of flour won’t make much difference.’
Thoughtfully eyeing the faded paw marks on Max’s trousers, Bunty went in search of a clothes brush. ‘This will do the trick, at least for the moment. And if they do need to be dry cleaned... we’ve a dry-cleaners in the village now. Did you know?’
Max shook his head and took the clothes brush from Bunty’s hand. He was anxious to brush his trousers himself. His seat was still smarting from the vigorous rubbing with the tea-towel.
‘I didn’t see the dry-cleaners when I went to the village for Constance, but I did notice the new mini-supermarket, florists and wine merchants.’
Bunty gave a broad grin. ‘Oh, yes, the wine merchants! As you can imagine, Max, they do a roaring trade. Why only last week...’ From the back of her mind, a small warning bell sounded and, deciding against further discussion on the drinking habits of Church Haywood locals, Bunty turned her attention to the florist’s instead. ‘As for the florist’s, Penny is a gem. She’s only been open since Christmas but already has a wonderful reputation. If you’d seen the flowers she did for poor Elizabeth’s funeral... I expect Connie told you all about that didn’t she?’
At this point Max merely nodded. He wasn’t particularly keen to discuss Elizabeth Benedict’s funeral. Nevertheless, he had to admit to himself, from what he remembered of the scene in
the churchyard yesterday evening, the flowers were certainly beautiful and tastefully arranged.
‘Of course,’ Bunty continued, placing the lid on the coffee pot, ‘your sister and I felt it was the least we could do for Alison. She’s such a sweet girl and life hasn’t been easy for her you know…
Max was in the process of thinking that at least Alison Benedict had a life - unlike his daughter - when the kitchen door flew open and in bounded a wire-haired terrier, followed closely by Alison clutching two cartons of milk.
‘I’m sorry Bunty. He just sort of flew past me when I opened the door and…’ Alison stared in horror at Bunty’s guest, sitting at the kitchen table still clutching a clothes brush.
‘Alison! Why, we’ve been talking about you. You’re just in time for coffee. Isn’t that right, Max?’
At the mention of his name, Max rose abruptly and walked towards the back door. ‘If you don’t mind Bunty, I think I’d better get a move on. Constance mentioned an early lunch and there’s also something I need to do.’
‘But I thought you said... Anyway, you mustn’t go out of the back door, especially as you came in by the front...’
With his hand resting on the brass door handle, Max turned back with a totally bewildered look upon his face.
‘If you come in by the front door then you must leave by the front door. It’s unlucky, my dear,’ Bunty remarked, matter-of-factly.
Ignoring Alison, Max gave Bunty a sardonic smile. ‘In that case I shouldn’t worry about it, Bunty. I’ve already had more than my fair share of bad luck in the past ten years. I’m sure I didn’t get that by exiting from the wrong door!
‘Goodness me! Who’s upset him?’ Bunty asked, watching Max hurry away.
‘I have.’
‘You have, Alison... How?’
‘As I told you earlier, "if looks could kill". I remain convinced that Mr Craven blames me for Tara’s accident.’
Secrets From The Past Page 3
