The Perfectly Imperfect Woman

by Milly Johnson

  Cilla had confirmed, as asked, in writing that Johnny would very much like to move into one of the cottages and the promise to help Zoe was more than kind. And she requested that the new owner be thanked for confirming that The Nectarines would be theirs for the duration of their lives. Having it in writing meant a lot to Cilla and her nerves could climb down from high alert now. She was as chirpy as a spring sparrow though Zoe, Marnie noticed, was a little quieter than usual.

  When Cilla brought Marnie a coffee, she closed the door behind her as if to impart a great secret.

  ‘I thought I’d let you know that Titus has called a meeting for everyone tonight in the Lemon Villa at seven o’clock.’

  ‘Oh really? That’s interesting.’ Not entirely unexpected though.

  ‘I think you should be there too,’ said Cilla. ‘You are part of this village as well. The new owner’s decisions affect you as much as us, I should imagine.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip-off,’ replied Marnie. ‘Just out of interest, you didn’t come up to the manor last night did you? About midnight?’

  ‘Whatever for?’ laughed Cilla. ‘Nope, not me. Or anyone in my house. We were all tucked up in bed for ten latest. Why?’

  ‘I was out walking and I saw the Pink Lady, so I ran up to catch her.’

  Cilla shuddered. ‘You’re a braver person than me, then.’

  Marnie had a sudden thought. ‘There aren’t any exits in the cellars, are there?’

  ‘Not that I know of. And I know this place inside out,’ said Cilla.

  The cellars were the only place Marnie hadn’t checked. She thought she’d take a look after she’d finished her coffee.

  On the way out of the door, Cilla turned back.

  ‘I heard what happened to Una and Kay yesterday. They’ve had it coming for a long time. Good on you, that’s what Griff told me to tell you.’

  Marnie carried on looking through the ledgers. What Emelie had said about Lilian seeing something in the pages that made her realise where the well might be had been niggling her. If it was here, Marnie was determined to find it.

  When she eventually lifted her head to rotate the stiffness from it, she saw Herv in the garden through the window and her body began to respond to the sight. She’d thought of that fleeting kiss more times than she should have and wondered what would have happened had she not run off like a racehorse spooked by a gun. She knew she should go and clear the air because she didn’t want things to be uncomfortable between them. She walked through into the conservatory and out of the doors, aware of her heartbeat increasing the closer she got to him.

  ‘Morning, Herv,’ she called. Please don’t hate me for being the rudest woman on the planet to you. Please don’t ignore me. He didn’t. He turned and smiled and she wondered what the hell she was doing not letting him have free access to her heart. And all areas.

  ‘Good morning. How are you today? Calmer, I hope?’

  ‘Yes, much calmer,’ said Marnie, although she didn’t feel very calm next to him. She felt as if she’d been plugged into the mains. Her eyes dropped to his hands on the garden fork and she recalled how tenderly they’d cradled her face.

  ‘Garden’s looking lovely,’ she said, scouring her mind for something, anything to say to him to show that she was okay with him, and wanted the same in return.

  ‘Thank you. I do my best.’

  ‘Is that edelweiss?’ She pointed to the small white flowers covering a large patch of the garden. Lilian’s tall lilies, standing in them, appeared to be growing in snow. It was an odd combination – but then, that was typical Lilian.

  ‘Yes it is. Mountain flowers in a garden, not my idea,’ and he clicked his tongue mock-disapprovingly. ‘They need a different soil but Lilian insisted so I persevered.’

  ‘You’ve done really well.’ God that sounds so patronising.

  ‘Thank you.’

  The air between them was thick with unsaid words.

  ‘Herv, about yesterday . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s okay.’

  ‘I don’t want there to be any awkwardness between us.’

  ‘There isn’t, I promise.’

  ‘Really?’

  He gave a small nod. ‘Of course, I understand.’

  He didn’t understand at all. He might have thought he did, but how could he?

  ‘I like you,’ Marnie said with a tentative smile. ‘I would hate to think I gave you any wrong . . . any signals that . . .’

  Herv tilted his head to one side and studied her intently.

  ‘I can wait,’ he said, his eyes twinkling.

  ‘No one can wait that long,’ replied Marnie, unsure if he was joking.

  God he’s sexy, said that ridiculous voice in her head. Are you out of your tiny mind?

  ‘I don’t suppose you fancy a trip down into the cellar with me?’ she asked. ‘Have you got a big torch?’

  Well if that doesn’t sound like innuendo, nothing does, the voice scoffed.

  ‘Sure,’ Herv answered her. ‘What are we looking for?’

  ‘A pink lady,’ she replied.

  The cellar, or rather cellars because there were eight of them, was accessed from the old boot room next to the scullery. Lilian had shown her underneath the house once, but it wasn’t a very exciting place. It might have been when her grandfather was alive with his collection of valuable wines that her father either sold or drank. Now there were just empty racks and alcoves and lots of old furniture that was surplus to requirements covered in dust sheets.

  The cellars were cavernous and chilly but there was nothing of interest down there. No secret doors – or trapdoors, for that matter, though she supposed that whoever she heard the previous night could have easily hidden themselves here until the coast was clear.

  ‘It definitely wasn’t an orb,’ explained Marnie, ‘it was a person, I swear it, a figure holding a torch or a light.’

  ‘I have no answers,’ said Herv, examining an alcove, knocking on the wall to find it was solid.

  ‘We need Scooby-Doo,’ sighed Marnie, then started to explain to Herv that he was a crime-solving cartoon dog, but Herv cut in and started singing the theme tune in Norwegian.

  ‘Se på Scooby-doo, så mye skrekk og gru . . . We have him in Norway. And we also don’t like Scrappy-Doo.’

  ‘I used to look like Velma when I was younger,’ said Marnie. ‘But without the glasses.’

  ‘No, I can’t see that. You are a Daphne.’

  ‘I wish.’ Daphne had always reminded Marnie of Gabrielle.

  ‘So am I Fred or Shaggy?’ asked Herv.

  ‘A hybrid.’

  Herv laughed, a deep merry boom of a sound that bounced back from the cellar walls, and she had a sudden vision of lying in bed with him, her head against his great chest, his arm draped possessively around her. A lazy Sunday morning where they’d be trading information about themselves, their histories, their memories. He would be talking about flowers and loving families, happy times in Norway and a perfect childhood and she’d be like a black cloud of doom with a backstory of rejection and resentment and her Guinness Book of Records entry for most mistakes in one lifetime. It couldn’t ever have worked between them. He might have been able to plant flowers in his soil and let something good grow from it but her garden was full of triffids. He’d had a lucky escape.

  As they were walking back upstairs, Marnie told Herv that Lilian had seen something in the ledgers that might indicate where Margaret Kytson’s well was. He told her that there was a village meeting at seven that night and he thought that she should be present too.

  Marnie went back to trying to read the ledgers through Lilian’s eyes but nothing sprang out at her at all. Nothing even made her curious, and she wondered if there really was anything to see or whether she’d be better employed concentrating on matters that needed her more immediate attention, such as trying to find costings for rebuilding those four dilapidated cottages or combing over the accounts again to see if she could find any more
of Titus’s misappropriation of funds. The ledgers held still more secrets, she was sure.

  HISTORY OF WYCHWELL BY LIONEL TEMPLE

  Contributions by Lilian Dearman.

  In 1849 Cecil Dearman, who inherited the manor after the death of his sibling Rodney, challenged his younger brother Tiberius to a dual. Both men were involved in a three-way relationship with ‘Fat Bessie’ Nevison of Pike Farm in Troughton. Miraculously both guns failed to go off so Cecil beat his brother to death with the end of his pistol and was executed for murder in the same year. Bessie married the last remaining brother Vestigen but she died in suspicious circumstances in 1851 – poisoned by sweets laced with arsenic. Vestigen was suspected of ridding himself of an unfaithful wife, but there was no evidence with which to charge him.

  Chapter 34

  The closer the clock hands swung around to seven, the more Marnie’s nerves began to jangle. Could she really walk into Titus’s house uninvited to face people who resented her presence in the village because she’d 1) put up their rents, 2) slashed their private funding, 3) snogged their heartthrob and 4) shoved cheesecake in their faces.

  The first time she’d had to do a presentation in front of the industry demi-god that was Laurence Stewart-Smith, she’d almost walked out of her job rather than face him. He was well known for being impossible to impress and of being a closet misogynist. She’d thrown up the night before, had chronic diarrhoea in the morning. She was pretty sure, at least, that she wouldn’t vomit or mess herself during her address because there was nothing left in her system to expel. It was always good to find a positive, she thought.

  It was whilst she was putting her make-up on at the kitchen table that fateful morning that she heard something that would stay with her always. The radio was on and playing an anniversary programme which featured an interview with Sammy Davis Junior. He was talking about the prejudices he had endured throughout his career.

  ‘You always have two choices: your commitment versus your fear,’ he said and that resonated so deeply with Marnie that she dropped her mascara. Commitment versus fear, which was it to be? She’d arrived at Café Caramba that morning with a whole new attitude. She presented her ideas to a room packed full of men expecting something weak and full of holes and instead she’d dazzled them into silence.

  Now she was facing the same: which was more important, her fear or getting Wychwell back on its feet? Titus Sutton was big and bullish but he didn’t have the power that Laurence once had over her: Titus couldn’t sack her. Titus couldn’t sully her name so she never worked again. Titus was simply a big bag of hot air – and a corrupt one at that.

  So Marnie put on one of the power-suits she used to wear for work, applied ‘don’t-fuck-with-me’ red lipstick and as she walked up to the Lemon Villa, recited Sammy Davis Junior’s quote like a mantra. She had deliberately delayed her arrival until quarter past, to allow the meeting to be in full swing. She rang the doorbell, her jaw tight with tension. Hilary answered.

  ‘I hear there’s a village gathering tonight,’ said Marnie, head held high.

  ‘There certainly is,’ said Hilary, smile pulling at the corners of her lips. ‘Would you like to push past me to gain entry. It’s just to your right, there.’

  Marnie didn’t have to push past her, of course. There were fourteen steps because she counted them in an effort to offset her spiking anxiety level. She didn’t give herself time to think, but opened the door and walked straight into the room full of people. Marnie took them all in with a sweep of her eyes from Derek at one side of the table to Una at the other. Zoe’s head was down, Titus was glaring at her, Cilla was wearing a small smile, Herv gave her a secret wink.

  Titus was the first to speak. ‘Hilary, what on earth are you doing, letting her in?’

  ‘I didn’t give your wife the option of not letting me in,’ said Marnie. ‘If this is a village meeting, about the village, and me I expect, then I reserve the right to be here.’

  Titus’s eyeballs began to bulge. ‘This is my house, madam . . .’

  ‘Well it’s your home, but the house itself belongs to the village, which I’m presently in charge of,’ she fired back. Something in her head gave her a high-five for that.

  ‘I think it might be a good idea if Miss Salt stays,’ said Dr Court. ‘She can answer our questions then.’

  There were grumbles of agreement. But not from Kay and Una, who were trying to kill her with their narrow-eyed stares.

  Herv got to his feet. ‘You can have my seat, I’ll stand,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Marnie, taking him up on the offer and sitting down demurely. Underneath the table, though, her leg was vibrating with nerves as if an over-enthusiastic puppeteer was jerking on a string tied to her knee.

  ‘So, questions?’ she said, dovetailing her fingers together and sitting primly. ‘Do ask me anything you aren’t sure of.’

  ‘Why does my rent agreement say that I have to pay a penalty of five pounds extra per month?’ Kay Sweetman dived straight in.

  ‘And mine does as well,’ said Una.

  ‘Do you really have to ask?’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ Una protested.

  ‘Well yes, actually I can and I have,’ Marnie replied. ‘And if you don’t like the arrangement then why not go and live in Skipperstone where you will be paying a hell of a lot more than you do in Wychwell. That’s the deal – take it or leave it. Anyone else?’

  Una’s mouth gathered into a cat’s-arse pucker of fury.

  ‘You’ve obviously made a huge mistake in what you think you’re going to charge me for living here,’ snickered Titus.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Marnie, with a coolness belying her inner stress. ‘I worked out the rents per square footage. You have rather a lot of square footage in this house, Mr Sutton. Quid pro quo. It’s fair and – if you’ll excuse the pun – square.’

  Titus’s red face moved further up the angry spectrum towards purple.

  ‘How solid are the promises you made in the letters?’ asked Cilla, and Marnie knew she was giving her the chance to appease people’s worries. Bless her.

  ‘The new deals have been made with the approval of the new owner. They are binding. You all have your homes for the duration of your lifetimes, subject to the rents being paid of course. If you work for the estate and then retire, the rent will constitute part of your pension.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cilla.

  ‘I can’t afford to pay rent,’ said Una, her chin and bosom jiggling with indignation. ‘I haven’t got a job.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to get one then, won’t you,’ said Marnie, starting to enjoy herself now.

  ‘I can’t work,’ said Una. ‘I have bad feet.’

  ‘I do believe there are actual jobs you can do sitting down these days,’ replied Marnie with faux sweetness. ‘You pay, you stay, say no, you go. Next.’

  David Parselow raised one hand whilst rubbing his chin thoughtfully with the other.

  ‘The loyalty payments that the businesses have received in the past, do we have to pay them back?’

  Marnie had to be careful how to answer this because she’d written to Titus that he had to.

  ‘The two businesses in the area, i.e. the pub and the post office, were given a bonus payment in compensation for lack of custom, from what I understand. By increasing the amount of people who live in, and who know of, Wychwell, it is hoped your businesses will have a much-improved turnover. There is absolutely no other reason for anyone else to have received a loyalty bonus.’ She looked pointedly over at Titus, who was firing daggers at her with his rheumy eyes. ‘But to answer your question directly, David, no. I think that would be unfair.’

  He sagged with relief, as if he’d been a balloon and a pin had been stuck in his back.

  ‘Who is the new owner?’ asked Emelie. ‘Do you really not know, Marnie?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ she replied.

  Titus gave a short bark of laughter and everyone’s head s
wung around to him.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Marnie reiterated. ‘One of you is, I’m sure. One of you has a set of keys – the owner’s keys – to the manor. One of you was up there last night.’ She looked around hoping to spot some giveaway body language, but she saw nothing. ‘Now, is there anything else?’

  Silence answered her. ‘Okay, well, if there is and you want to discuss it with me in private, you know where I am. I do need your intentions to stay and abide by the new agreements in writing by the end of the month. I will take any non-responses as a desire to terminate your residency in Wychwell and will then issue a thirty-day notice to quit your property. Thank you for your time.’ She stood and pushed the seat back with her legs.

  She was at the door when Roger asked, ‘So where has all the money gone?’

  ‘Maybe Titus can explain that one,’ said Marnie.

  A church-like hush fell upon the group after Marnie departed from their midst. Cyril Rootwood, an old quarry miner with a resultant bad chest, was the first to break it.

  ‘So, where has all the money gone, Titus? What did she mean by “Titus can explain that one”?’

  ‘I have absolutely no bloody idea,’ he replied, with convincing confidence. ‘Always a clever ploy to shift the focus onto someone else when you are trying to divert it from yourself.’

  ‘Well, with the greatest of respect, Titus, she can’t be held responsible for there being no money in the estate.’ This from Mrs Court. ‘You must know what’s happened to it all. You looked after that side of the business.’

  ‘Dear lady,’ began Titus in the most patronising tone he could muster, ‘Lilian had absolutely no fiscal sense. I could only advise, not dictate.’