‘But that’s ridiculous! How could he possibly do that... when you were in hospital yourself for weeks after the accident? Why, for a while your poor mother and I thought you were going to die!
‘Perhaps, from the look on his face, Mr Craven hoped and wished that I had.’
‘Alison!’ Bunty shook her head in disbelief and silently reached for the coffee pot. One minute Max Craven was charm personified and eager to stop for coffee and the next… he was like a changed man and couldn’t get out of the cottage quickly enough.
‘You’re sure he wasn’t upset by Jasper? Perhaps he doesn’t like dogs,’ she added brightly, passing Alison a cobalt blue mug.
‘Oh, he probably views Jasper and I with the same disdain, considering this morning’s episode at St Faiths.’
‘Why, what happened at St Faith’s?’
‘Let’s just say our four legged friend - or at least your four legged friend as he’s your dog - was a great deal happier to see Mr Craven than the other way round. Jasper left his calling card all over those immaculately pressed trousers.’
‘You don’t mean Jasper...!’
Reading her mind, Alison replied. ‘No, not in the way you’re thinking, Bunty. But do you remember when Tara was small, and I showed her how to make potato prints on large sheets of white paper, sitting at your kitchen table?
Bunty nodded but failed to see the connection.
‘Well,’ explained Alison with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Substitute expensive beige linen for white paper and muddy paw-prints for potato prints.’
It took Bunty sometime to realize the significance of Alison’s statement. ‘Oh no! So… did he - Max I mean - think Jasper was your dog?’
‘Yes, very much so and even suggested I took him to dog training classes!’
‘Oh, Alison, my dear, I do apologize. I know Jasper’s a bit of a handful, but you shouldn’t get the blame for his unruly behaviour. Perhaps I should ring Connie and get her to explain to Max.’
Alison finished her coffee, shrugged her shoulders and took her empty mug to the sink.
‘I really don’t think it’s worth bothering about. Mr Craven has got some extremely fixed ideas in that stubborn head of his. Besides, didn’t he say something about an early lunch? Heavens! If you ring and he’s in the middle of eating... I don’t want the blame for giving him indigestion as well!’
Watching Alison go upstairs to deal with her correspondence, Bunty turned back to the now over-warm pastry still spread-eagled across the pine kitchen table. With a hefty sweep she brought the rolling pin down on top of it. ‘Damn! This pastry will probably taste like paving slabs now.’
Looking up to the ceiling, where she heard the overhead creak of floorboards in Alison’s bedroom, she whispered with a sigh. ‘Well, I certainly do intend to bother about it. So there!’
Contrary to the impression he’d given, Max had not returned to Haywood Grange for an early lunch. Instead he drove back to St Faith’s for his third visit in less than twenty-four hours. On this occasion, he was relieved to find no dogs and no Alison Benedict, only the song of skylarks from on high and the gentle, low buzzing of bees from the ivy-clad stone walls.
Carefully lifting the rosebud spray from the floor of his car, Max walked to his daughter’s grave and placed the flowers on the grassy mound. Swallowing hard, his eyes moved along the inscription on the simple headstone.
IN MEMORY OF TARA LOUISE CRAVEN, ONLY DAUGHTER OF MAX AND VIRGINIA CRAVEN
BORN... DIED...
To Max, the months, years and dates were just a blur which ended abruptly in, ‘AGED TEN YEARS’
He gave a low groan. ‘Aged ten years and dead ten years, Tara, but at least here at St Faiths you have a perfect resting place, which is more than can be said for your poor mother.’
‘At least now Max is home, I won’t be going to London quite so often,’ Constance was whispering down the phone to Bunty.
‘And I daresay you’ll feel a great deal better having him home again. I know how worried you’ve been about him. Ten years is a long time for a man like Max to cut himself off from the world.’
‘Yes,’ Connie replied thoughtfully. ‘I think he needs cheering up a bit. Which reminds me…’
Returning from posting the bulk of her thank you letters, Alison heard Bunty’s voice say quite clearly, before she replaced the handset of the phone. ‘Yes, I’m sure Alison will look forward to it; I know I shall.’
‘What will I look forward to?’ Alison enquired, bending down to stroke Jasper, curled up in his basket.
‘Dinner at Haywood Grange on Saturday week - a sort of welcome home for Max. Connie’s invited us both.’
Alison groaned. ‘You’re joking, of course! You saw how Mr Craven reacted when I came back with Jasper. Bunty! Couldn’t you have made some excuse for me? Can’t you go on your own?’
‘Nonsense! It will do you good to get out. I’m sure you’re exaggerating this Max business.’
‘And I’m sure I’m not! Oh! I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to snap. I just wish you’d asked me first, that’s all.’
Placing a comforting arm on Alison’s shoulders, Bunty said softly. ‘I’m sure it won’t be that bad; after all we’ll be a party of fourteen.’
‘Fourteen!’
‘Well, you know the size of the dining room at Haywood Grange and how Connie likes to surround that magnificent dining table of hers. Besides, you could do with putting on some weight. Look at you. You’re so thin I can hardly see you. You’re like a...’
‘If I’m so thin, ‘ Alison interrupted. ‘I’m sure you and Connie won’t miss me. There’ll be plenty of other people to...’
Bunty shook her head. ‘Oh, no. That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all. That would make thirteen, and you can’t have thirteen people sitting at a table.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because it’s unlucky.’
At the mention of the word ‘unlucky’, Alison was reminded of Bunty’s earlier superstitious proclamation when Max had chosen to leave by the back door.
‘So why not tell Connie to do what they did in that restaurant I once went to with Oliver.’
‘What was that?’
‘Sit a teddy bear on the fourteenth chair,’ Alison called, walking into the garden, desperate for some fresh air and the chance to end the conversation.
Chapter 4
Stepping reluctantly from the shower, Alison slipped into a knee-length cotton kimono and tied a towel around her hair. Bunty heard her sigh as she crossed the landing to her bedroom.
‘Now come along Alison! No more sighing. Try looking at it from the point of view of we’re doing Connie a big favour. And just think of the wonderful food she’ll have waiting for us. I must admit I’m starving!’
‘Well I’m not. I’m not hungry at all.’
Unconsciously running a hand across her stomach, Alison longed for Bunty to excuse her from this evening’s dinner party. It was true she wasn’t hungry. She’d hardly eaten a thing during the past forty-eight hours through fear of coming face to face once more with Max Craven. Now the uncomfortable knots she felt twisting at her insides only served to remind her of the abject fear and panic still to come.
Sensing Alison’s reluctance, Bunty tried to make light of the matter.
‘Take it from me,’ she announced with a grin, ‘if I turn up without you, Connie will send Max over to collect you himself! Then what will you do?’
Bunty’s statement had the required effect, Alison’s kimono fell rapidly to the floor and she hurried to her wardrobe.
‘Are you sure my black linen will be OK?’ She held the dress against herself. ‘Apart from my old Laura Ashley print, the contents of my wardrobe appear to be jeans, jeans and more jeans.’
Filled with a sudden pang of remorse, Bunty patted her on the shoulder.
‘I’m sorry, my dear, I realize it’s still early days since your mother’s funeral. The black linen will be perfect and if you don’t feel very chat
ty, I’m sure the others will understand.’
Outside Haywood Grange, Bunty gave Alison’s hand a squeeze. ‘Chin up. Think of us as a couple of spare females brought in for the evening. In little more than a few hours, your ordeal will be over.’
A few hours, thought Alison to herself, wishing she could be anywhere else other than this manicured expanse of lawn and gravel. Fixing her attention on the twisted and gnarled trunk of Connie’s prize wisteria, Alison became aware of Bunty grabbing her hand once more and found herself standing in a flower filled hallway.
‘Hello you two,’ said George Henderson with a broad grin. ‘We thought you weren’t coming. Connie was just about to send Max over with a search party. Trouble with the car?’
‘No,’ Bunty replied, with a knowing glance in Alison’s direction. ‘We thought we’d walk over. It’s such a lovely evening.’
‘Come along then,’ George called. ‘Let’s go and join the others.’
Bunty watched him lead the way and motioned to Alison to follow.
Relieved to find the rest of the guests in animated conversation, Alison sipped at the kir she was handed and looked carefully about the room. She noticed Max Craven almost immediately. He was standing by the open drawing room windows talking to Tom and Evangeline Carstairs. Tom Carstairs, grey haired, grey-suited and with skin of similar pallor, was the local solicitor who’d dealt with her mother’s will - such that it was; as for Evangeline Carstairs… she was quite another matter.
From the top of her expensively hennaed head to the toes of her green, purple and gold stilletos, Evangeline was a garish blend of fabric and colour. Vibrant shades of green and purple fought against a background of burnt orange, while finest silk chiffon wound itself intricately around exposed sun-tanned flesh. As for the flesh that wasn’t exposed, that had been forced into the very tight waistband of a silk shantung skirt. The skirt, George Henderson couldn’t help but notice as he passed Evangeline another kir, was slashed almost to the thigh.
‘Evangeline, how colourful you look,’ George announced. ‘You remind me of something exotic from the hot house at Kew.’
Evangeline gave a throaty laugh. ‘Oh, I’m exotic all right, George. Quite the little passion flower in fact, or hadn’t you noticed after all these years?’
‘Course I have, my dear,’ George teased, ‘But then I know you’re already spoken for and Connie keeps me on such a tight rein.’
As Evangeline took a deep gulp of her drink, George raised an eyebrow in Max’s direction. Too busy thinking of Evangeline Carstairs’ earlier pronouncement - she was after all anything but ‘little’ - Max was in the process of trying to interpret George’s gesture when he felt his sister’s hand on his arm.
‘Max, do come and say hello to Bunty and Alison, then as everyone’s here we can go and eat. If we don’t sit down soon,’ Connie urged softly, ‘Evangeline will be under the table!’
‘Then why don’t we sit down right away?’ Max suggested, anxious to avoid this meeting as much as Alison. ‘Don’t forget I saw Bunty and er... Miss Benedict only the other day.’
Grabbing Max’s arm and steering him across the room to where Bunty and Alison were talking to Penny from the florist’s, Connie was heard to remark something about her brother’s manners and ‘the other day indeed!’
Max bent and kissed Bunty warmly on the cheek and acknowledged Alison with a curt, ‘Miss Benedict.’
She in turn replied with a polite, tight-lipped, ‘Mr Craven.’
‘Good gracious you two!’ Connie exclaimed. ‘What is this, Pride and Prejudice! In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re in the twentieth century now. Tonight you’re in the Grange at Church Haywood, not Netherfield Hall and we’re all on first name terms. Now, Max, as tonight’s dinner is supposed to be in your honour, you’d better lead the way.’
Connie was on the point of suggesting Max showed Alison to her place at the dining table when George intervened.
‘Alison,’ he said, recognising the earlier panic in her eyes. ‘Would you be so kind as to allow the oldest person in the room to escort the youngest in to dinner? And you Max, can perhaps…’
‘Push a way through for the fattest!’ Bunty broke in jovially, anxious to relieve the tension, as she hooked her arm in Max’s elbow.
Seated in her dining chair, Alison breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Connie take her place at the far end of the table and gestured to her brother to sit by her side. With his sister on one side and Evangeline Carstairs on the other, Max, Alison concluded, was no longer a threat.
As the meal progressed with talk of set-aside and milk quotas, tennis tournaments, the forthcoming summer fete and even the rumours that Jessops Stables were to be sold at long last, Alison found herself relaxing and avoided, as far as possible, looking in Max’s direction. Only once did their eyes meet, leaving her feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
Leaning lasciviously in Max’s direction, where she revealed an ample expanse of crepey, tanned bosom, Evangeline placed a heavily beringed hand on his arm and demanded loudly. ‘Fascinated as I am hearing about our delightful farming community in Church Haywood with all its quaint little ways, what I really want to know, Max Craven - and I’m sure everyone else does too – is what you intend to do now that you’re back?’
‘Do? I’m not quite sure what you mean Evangeline.’
‘Of course you do, you crafty thing! You’ve obviously got something up your sleeve. What are you planning? Come on now, spill the beans.’
From where she sat further down on the opposite side of the table, Bunty considered Evangeline’s choice of words. In some ways they seemed strangely appropriate. Max was occupied pulling at his shirt cuff trying to conceal the scar on his left wrist, while Evangeline did the spilling, by way of her drink.
Spotting imminent disaster, Max made a grab at Evangeline’s glass before the remaining burgundy wine seeped from the table onto burnt-orange shantung silk.
‘Oh, dear, how clumsy of me,’ Evangeline said, dabbing at the wine with one of Connie’s best white Irish linen napkins. ‘Not to worry though. You’re quite safe, Tom, it hasn’t gone on my skirt. You won’t have to take me back to Hong Kong for a replacement.’
‘I’m so glad,’ came the cool reply from Alison’s side as the embarrassed Tom Carstairs looked in his wife’s direction.
Sensing acute discomfort all round, Connie looked towards her husband for support and made for the door. ‘George, perhaps if you’d care to pour the dessert wine and I’ll see to the puds.’
‘I’ll give you a hand if you like,’ Bunty said, rising from her chair and hurried after her friend.
In the kitchen Connie gave an exasperated groan. ‘I specifically told George to watch Evangeline with the wine, you know what she’s like once she gets going.’
‘Don’t let it worry you Connie. Knowing Evangeline, she’d probably had a few before she even arrived. We’re all used to her by now.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Connie with a frown, as she eased a summer pudding from its mould onto a glass serving plate. ‘But if you want my opinion, I think she’s getting worse. Poor Tom, how on earth does he cope with her?’
‘By ignoring her as best he can,’ replied Bunty. ‘In their own way, you know, I think they’re perfectly happy. As long as Evangeline has her new car every year plus her Harrods charge card...’
Connie straightened a crystalized violet on an individual chocolate mousse. ‘Yes, but what about Tom, what do you think he wants?’
‘Continued success with his practice, a quiet life and the chance to go fishing whenever he can.’
‘Well the practice is certainly doing well and Evangeline never seems to mind him going fishing, so two out of three can’t be bad.’
‘Good,’ said Bunty, ‘So dare I suggest we stop worrying about Tom and Evangeline before that raspberry bombe you’re holding melts away to a gooey puddle!’
Suddenly reminded of the twelve people waiting for her in the dining room, Connie brace
d herself and moved towards the door. In the hallway she turned to Bunty with a whisper. ‘I only thought it would be a good idea to invite Evangeline and Tom as they were such good friends with Max and Virginia all those years ago. Poor Max...’
‘Connie!’ Bunty said with a good-natured grin. ‘Do shut up! Max is a big boy now and these dishes are bloody heavy so will you please get a move on!’
Back in the dining room, Connie was both surprised and relieved to find the conversation had settled back to normal. George was doing the rounds with the dessert wine and Max was describing in great detail the state of the decor in the au pair’s flat.
‘You know,’ he said with a wry grin in his brother in law’s direction, ‘when I wake up in the morning I’m never quite sure if I’m in the Swiss Alps or Church Haywood. With all those posters of Lake Geneva, the Jet d’Eau and snow covered mountains, I’m almost persuaded Connie expects me to yodel for my breakfast.’
‘Just be thankful I don’t make you sing for your supper, Max.’ Connie teased, placing plates and dishes on the table. ‘Anyway, as I told you, you’re perfectly at liberty to decorate the place... that’s as long as you don’t use those same dreary greys and sombre colours you had in your London flat.’
Talk of greys and sombre colours prompted Evangeline to turn her attention to her husband. Tom was busily occupied, talking to Alison.
Evangeline traced an orange-painted fingernail on the tip of Max’s scar. ‘Oh, you can’t have gloomy colours, Max. You must go for bright, cheerful colours, and the person you need to help you is right here in this very room.’
‘Really, Evangeline.’ Max replied, looking at the various guests gathered around the table. ‘Who exactly do you mean?’
‘Why Alison of course! She’s totally transformed our spare room.’
At the mention of her name, Alison looked up. What was Evangeline saying about her?
Evangeline’s husky and somewhat slurred voice, drifted down the table in Alison’s direction. Unfortunately, owing to George’s generous servings of wine and the copious amounts consumed by the majority of guests at Haywood Grange, she could only discern odd snatches of Evangeline’s conversation. When she caught the words, ‘She’s simply wonderful! You must get Alison to advise you; I would never have dreamed…’
Secrets From The Past Page 4
