‘Rosie! Where the hell have you been? I’ve been looking all over the place for you and your granddad’s been worried sick. We thought we’d lost you!’
‘Sorry Dad, I...’
‘Just you wait till I get you home...’
Max coughed politely. ‘Rosie’s had a bad fall. My colleague and I found her and decided we should take her to the first-aid tent.’
Suddenly aware of Rosie’s companions, Darren Jennings looked up in a state of confusion.
‘Oh! I’m sorry. It’s just that you hear such terrible things about kids these days and we thought... Rosie, your leg, what have you done?’
‘It’s okay Darren,’ Alison explained. ‘It’s not as deep as we first thought, though I expect it will leave quite a scar.’
‘A scar! Yippee! Just wait ‘til I show ‘em at school.’ Rosie went bouncing around the pram that carried her baby brother. She was already thinking of the wonderful scab she would show to her friends. And, if she picked it when mum wasn’t looking, then she would have an even better scar to show them. How simply great! All she had to do now was find her granddad, so they could compare war wounds.
‘Granddad! Granddad! I fell over an’ cut me leg and...’
‘Why, if it isn’t my little cowboy! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I thought you’d been captured by Red Indians!’
Darren Jennings sighed and turned to Alison and Max. ‘No wonder she’s as bad as she is. He’s forever encouraging her. The wife worries like mad about her...’
‘Don’t worry, it won’t last,’ Alison broke in kindly. ‘I remember I was always…’ but she stopped herself. Max was watching and listening. Somehow it seemed suddenly inappropriate to mention what she used to get up to when she was small.
Smoothing down his long white beard, Harry Jennings walked over to Max and held out his hand. ‘Mr Craven, thank you. Rosie’s been telling me all about her adventures...’
With Max and Rosie’s attention elsewhere, Alison peeped into the pram at the sleeping baby. All rosy and pink, newly changed and fed, he looked the picture of contentment. Gazing down at him, she felt an unfamiliar stirring in her stomach. Babies. Would she ever have babies? Years ago she’d vowed she would never have babies. Especially if you had to let a man... and particularly after what she and Tara had seen…
A grubby hand reached up for Alison’s and she heard a voice plead, ‘Al’son, what about my plane?’
‘Your plane! Of course I’d quite forgotten, how silly of me.’
‘What’s this about a plane?’ Darren Jennings enquired.
‘Al’son and the man said I could have a new one. Isn’t that right, mister?’
‘Mr Craven to you, young lady!’ old Mr Jennings corrected. ‘And anyway, you musn’t go round asking people for toys...’
‘But I din’t!’
‘No, she din’t - I mean didn’t.’ Max protested. ‘Rosie broke her plane when she fell over. She was very brave when the St John’s Ambulance lady dressed her leg and we thought she deserved a new one.’
Suitably mollified, Harry and Darren Jennings allowed Rosie to head in the direction of the village toy shop for a replacement Concorde.
‘I only hope we can find one,’ Max murmured in a low voice to Alison as he hoisted Rosie once more on to his shoulders
Twenty minutes later, lovingly clutching her new plane, Rosie called down to Max and Alison
‘If God’s on his cloud, do you think he can see my new plane?’
Alison cast Max a furtive glance and replied, ‘I expect so.’
Rosie extended her plane high into the air with a contented sigh. ‘That’s good then, ‘cos God loves Concorde too.’ Sensing the grown-ups air of bewilderment, Rosie explained. ‘In church, at the chris’nin’, the vicar said God loves Concorde. He did, honest. I heard him!’
‘Actually she’s right,’ Alison acknowledged, with a bemused smile.
‘You are joking!’ said Max. ‘Surely you don’t expect me to...’
‘During the service for Morning Prayer, it does say "God, who art the author of peace and lover of concord". Of course that’s not quite how Rosie’s interpreted it, but it’s true nonetheless. Perhaps you should go to church sometime and hear for yourself.’
‘I stopped going to church when my wife died,’ Max said through tight lips, ‘and also vowed never to go again.’
The rest of the journey back to Rosie’s house was spent in silence.
Relieved of his duties at the now depleted bran tubs, Nigel hurried towards Max’s car.
‘So our young friend, "Clint Cruise" has been returned safely to her folks at the ranch, then.’
Max nodded and switched on the ignition. ‘That’s right and she’s now the owner of a brand new Concorde aeroplane. By the way, here’s your change.’
‘I hope there wasn’t any trouble with her parents over that.’
‘No, not once Alison and I explained. You didn’t really have to pay for it, Nigel, I would willingly have...’
‘I know Max, but the kid deserved it for pure entertainment value alone. I’m only sorry Vanessa wasn’t here to witness it, that’s all.’
‘Do I detect a note of broodiness in your voice, my friend. A sudden desire to settle down and raise a family, perhaps?’
‘Quite possibly,’ said Nigel in reply. ‘I must admit, seeing you and Alison with little Rosie between you, I got to thinking... You certainly made a charming picture.’
Recognising the shuttered look on Max’s face, Nigel changed the subject immediately. ‘Right then, let’s go and take a look at the famous Craven’s Stables I’ve been hearing so much about!’
Returning to Haywood Grange, Max was surprised to find Connie on the front door step talking to Harry Jennings.
‘Why, if it isn’t my friend Merlin!’ Nigel exclaimed. ‘What’s he doing here at this time on a Saturday evening?’
‘Your friend Merlin, just happens to be our friend Clint’s granddad. Surely you hadn’t forgotten? Oh, dear, I hope this doesn’t mean she’s gone missing again.’
With a worried frown, Max hurried from the car towards Connie.
‘Max, Mr Jennings has just called over to thank you again for looking after Rosie this afternoon.’
‘That’s right, Mr Craven.’ Harry held out his hand. In it was a child’s drawing. ‘Rosie did this for you after she had her bath. She wanted to bring it over herself but Michelle said no, it was far too late. Anyway, Rosie insisted I brought it over and wouldn’t go to bed until I promised. Besides,’ he grinned. ‘I knew I wouldn’t get any peace until I did. I’m sorry to disturb your Saturday evening.’
Max accepted the picture graciously and smiled at the subject matter. There was Rosie, sitting on Max’s shoulders, proudly holding her new plane. Complete with fixed Cheshire-cat grin and gashed knee (with the blood so painstakingly detailed) there was no mistaking the tousle-haired youngster who’d caused Max to smile more than once that afternoon.
‘I’ve another in my pocket for Alison,’ Harry announced. ‘I think it’s supposed to be of the three of you. You can judge for yourself.’
Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out the second picture. Sure enough there were the Max, Alison and Rosie look-a-likes. Rosie with extraordinary long arms reaching up for Max and Alison’s hands, and Alison with equally extraordinary long legs, wearing a blue dress and blue shoes.
‘Our Rosie’s certainly a character,’ Harry announced with a grin. ‘She fair wears us all out, yet surprisingly she adores her great-grannie and sits with her for hours chattering away and drawing her pictures.’
‘Your mother’s still alive!’ Max asked in amazement.
‘Oh, yes, and still going strong. She’s ninety-five now you know. Of course she’s been house-bound for years - apart from when we take her out in her wheelchair. As for her memory… that’s simply amazing. Only this afternoon, when Rosie was describing her adventures, Mother remembered back to when you were a small boy, Mr C
raven. She also told Rosie how Alison used to make your little girl daisy-chain necklaces.’
For the first time in ages, Max didn’t shy away from the mention of Tara. Instead, leaving Nigel to give Connie his opinion of Craven’s Stables, something prompted him to walk with Harry to the main gates.
‘Of course,’ Harry continued without thinking, pushing his bike along the gravelled drive, ‘there was a time, years ago, when we all wondered if Alison would ever walk again. She was a brave lass, you know, Mr Craven. Mother says she’d never seen Alison run so fast. She even caught up with your daughter at one point and tried to stop her running in front of that car. Mother said it was like watching those animals, what are they called... lemmings or something? Anyway, even though your Tara saw the car she still ran straight out in front of it, while poor Alison tried to drag her back. Apparently your lass never stood a chance and Alison’s leg was trapped between the car and the wall.’
Max stood in stunned silence. Alison had tried to stop Tara from running in front of the car? That wasn’t what had been stated at the inquest. There must be some mistake. Desperate to ask Harry to repeat what he’d just said, Max heard Connie’s voice calling from the house.
Max hesitated. ‘Harry, about your mother..?’
‘Yes, Mr Craven?’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. Another time, my sister’s calling. Thank Rosie for her delightful picture, will you and remember me to your mother.
‘Will do Mr Craven. Why don’t you pop over and see her some time? I’m sure she’d be tickled pink to see you again. Well, I’d better get on my way and deliver Alison’s drawing. No doubt Rosie will be peering anxiously from her bedroom window, waiting for my return.’
With Harry’s revelations ringing in his ears, Max walked to the front door where Connie and Nigel were waiting. His feet felt like lead weights and his mind struggled to recall Harry’s every word.
‘Your lass never stood a chance and Alison’s leg was trapped...’
Alison’s leg! Max puzzled. He never did get the explanation from George and Connie about Alison’s leg. In the dim and distant past he had a vague recollection Alison used to be an asthmatic. And what was it Connie had said the other day, when she and Bunty had been talking about the accident?
‘Max dear, you look exhausted. I’m not surprised, if what Mr Jennings says is true and you’ve been carrying Rosie about for the best part of the afternoon. Supper won’t be for at least another hour. That’s if you and Nigel haven’t changed your minds about joining us. Why don’t you go and have a shower? I see you’ve both have blood on your shirts. Presumably from Rosie’s knee?’
Nigel grinned. ‘Max’s is the genuine article all right, Connie, but I have to confess mine is tomato ketchup. I had a hot dog and sort of overdid it with the sauce. Serve me right for being so greedy.’
‘Then you’d both better go and change,’ Connie insisted. Smelling the air as she walked indoors, she added. ‘I think we’ve been exceptionally lucky with the weather today. If my nose serves me correctly, I’d be prepared to bet we’re in for some rain.’
*
At Keeper’s Cottage, Alison woke with a start. The bedroom window, having worked loose from its catch, was banging rhythmically with the wind. Quickly running to the window to close it, she caught sight of the sheets Bunty had pegged out before they went to bed.
They were from the box Nigel had carried into the marquee yesterday evening. The same sheets he’d described as shrouds. In the eerie moonlight, with the sheets casting ghostly shadows about the garden, Alison found herself thinking of Max and the odd way he’d looked at her when they were taking Rosie to buy a replacement Concorde.
Returning to bed, with a strange stirring in the pit of her stomach, Alison pulled her sheet and patchwork quilt closely about her, praying desperately for sleep to calm her troubled thoughts. Every time she closed her eyes however, she ‘saw’ Max Craven smiling down at her, with Rosie sitting merrily astride his shoulders.
‘Go away, Max!’ Alison murmured softly. ‘Please go away and leave me alone. I mustn’t feel even remotely attracted to you. You blame me for Tara’s death and I have to go along with that... letting you believe it for as long we’re both living here.’
But Max wouldn’t go away, not even as Alison slept. In her dreams he appeared before her looking as dark as night. Dressed in a magician’s robe, covered in gold crescent moons and blue chambray stars, his steely gaze chilled her very soul. Even Nigel was there too. Dressed in white, with a red stain on the fabric at his chest and carrying... What was he carrying? A pair of wire cutters and a roll of garden wire!
Tossing and turning in her sleep, Alison then saw herself. Wearing only a filmy white shroud, she was being dragged in by a midget. Only it wasn’t a midget. It was Rosie!
‘Come along Al’son,’ Rosie was saying, ‘Mister wants you. He wants you ‘cos you’re pretty. He wants to see your legs. I told you, you should have worn jeans.’
Propped between Rosie and Nigel, Alison was aware of Max walking towards her. With her heart beating wildly in her breast, she was swept into his arms and carried to the sacrificial altar. Struggling, she fought hard against him, feeling the heaviness of his body and his warm breath against her throat.
‘No!’ she cried, forcing him away, her hands entwining themselves in his thick hair as she did so. ‘No!’
‘Jasper! You bad dog! Stop slobbering at Alison’s throat and get off her bed this minute!’ Bunty’s voice echoed from the bedroom door. ‘I’m so sorry, my dear, did he startle you?’
Rubbing her eyes and trying to acclimatize herself to the semi-gloom, Alison peered to where Bunty stood framed in the doorway.
‘I think there’s a storm brewing,’ Bunty explained, ‘so I thought I’d better get those sheets in - before they get blown away. That wretched animal must have shot past without me realizing. When I heard you call out, and I saw he wasn’t in his basket, I put two and two together. I bet you thought you were being attacked by some evil, hairy monster.’
‘Something like that,’ Alison said shakily, reaching for the glass of water on the bedside table.
‘I knew we shouldn’t have had that cheese for supper. I’ve the most awful indigestion,’ Bunty called behind her as, grabbing Jasper by the collar, she marched him back downstairs to the kitchen and his basket.
At Haywood Grange, Max was also experiencing a troubled night. Unlike Alison, however, he hadn’t even attempted sleep. His mind was too active, too preoccupied with a jumble of thoughts racing in his head. Too preoccupied in fact with an unsolved puzzle.
In some ways Max’s current puzzle, reminded him of one he’d bought at a church fete years ago. Then, as a small boy, he’d set about completing the newly purchased jigsaw, only to find to his bitter disappointment, there was one piece missing. In Max’s eyes the puzzle was no good! Incomplete it was useless! Even as a young boy, Max Craven had always expected perfection.
‘Perfection.’ He sighed wearily, rubbing at tired eyes. ‘Has that been my problem? Wanting things to be too perfect?’ Virginia had been perfect, hadn’t she? The perfect wife and mother, or at least so he’d thought until his recent encounter with Evangeline.
Tara too - hadn’t she been the perfect daughter? Always so beautifully behaved. A joy to encounter, enjoying life to the full and never one to cause trouble.
Yet, according to Harry Jennings, Tara had not only deliberately run out in front of the car, she’d nearly been the cause of Alison’s death too. And what about the driver of the car? Until now Max had never even considered him. ‘Poor bastard,’ Max whispered, ‘I bet he never got over it.’
Walking into the galley kitchen of the flat, Max was secretly glad Nigel was staying in Connie’s guest room. Seeing Max drink whisky at two o’clock in the morning would doubtless arouse suspicion. Filling his glass yet again, Max fetched a fresh sheet of writing paper and began jotting down everything and anything that suddenly seemed relevant.
&nb
sp; At the top he put ‘1. Alison’s leg. Why is this a mystery?’ And underneath continued in numerical order, until he had the following:
2.Why did Tara run in front of the car?
3.Virginia. Who was her lover?
4.Why did her lover leave her and when?
5.Was the fire, really an accident?
Chapter 11
On Sunday morning, Max woke with a heavy head to discover equally heavy skies laden with rain. Hearing a frantic knocking at the door, he quickly hid the whisky bottle. Hurriedly folding the piece of paper with the last word ‘accident’, underlined in broad black strokes, he placed it in the drawer alongside Alison’s letter.
‘Oh, good, I’m glad you’re up.’ Nigel said, ‘because you can take me to church. I want to see the famous Reverend Hope in action. Connie tells me St Faith’s is wonderful for Sunday worship.
So that was it, Max thought angrily. This was his sister’s doing. Ever since he’d returned to Church Haywood, Constance had been trying to get him to attend church. Now she’d even put Nigel up to it.
‘I don’t…’ Max began.
‘Whatever you were going to say, Max, I refuse to listen,’ Nigel interrupted. ‘We must go and give thanks for yesterday’s wonderful weather and the success of that amazing fete. Don’t forget, I have to leave for London before lunch, so you’ll soon be rid of me.’
Locking the flat, Max followed Nigel in silence to the front door where Connie was waiting. Though it was not in her nature to gloat, she nevertheless patted Nigel on the back, beamed and mouthed a silent ‘well done’ when Max wasn’t looking.
‘Who knows,’ said Nigel, walking through the churchyard, ‘I might even see my friend Merlin and the sea-sprite again. I don’t suppose our little “Clint” will be in church, will she?’
Max gave a wry smile. ‘I very much doubt it. Our little Clint probably has better things to do, like playing with her aeroplanes. I expect she only goes to church for "chris’nin’s".’
Secrets From The Past Page 11
