by Diane Janes
Then in a flash I do remember Mrs Ivanisovic’s face. I can see her sitting in Simon’s uncle’s drawing room, perched on the edge of a sofa, balancing a cup and saucer. I recall her expression, somewhere between bemusement and exasperation, as Trudie announced, ‘They picked me up on the beach – like a sea shell – and brought me home.’
This was typical of Trudie – a charming falsehood, delivered in such a way as to have you half smiling, half believing it. If truth be told it had been Trudie who latched on to us, and we certainly never intended to bring her home; but by the time the puncture was fixed it had become obvious we wouldn’t get back to the house until nearly midnight. Rural England and Wales closed down at half past ten, and as we drove through darkened villages it became clear there was nothing for it but to offer Trudie a bed for the night.
We were all shattered by the time we got back to the house. I began to shiver as soon as we climbed out of the warm car interior, crossing my arms and rubbing them. Danny noticed and cuddled me close while we waited for Simon to unlock the front door. The house felt particularly empty and unwelcoming. My flip-flops slapped against the stone floor of the hall and our voices echoed, unnaturally loud. I watched Trudie’s face as she looked around, trying to gauge what she made of it. Simon said she could have the room with the brass bedstead, so I showed her the big cupboard where the sheets were kept, then left her to it.
The three of us had already been in residence for a couple of weeks by then, but the programme of work in the garden had been slow to get under way. Free from the constraints of home and studies, we could squander whole days in bed or cruise around the countryside in Simon’s car. We talked and laughed for hours on end, familiarity not yet having exhausted our interest in one another’s opinions. Life was suddenly full of exciting new opportunities, like swimming naked in the reservoir, or getting drunk on too many vodka and limes. Although nothing like so sheltered as I had been, Simon and Danny were equally infused with this sense of freedom. Like kids let out to play, we were full of ideas – without our parents to hold us back there was nothing we might not do. There was much talk of visiting local beauty spots, ancient abbeys and ruined castles: plans which mostly failed to materialize, falling victim to late nights and a general reluctance to rise before noon. Danny had already begun to think up bigger and better plans. ‘Next year we could go to Italy,’ he said. ‘See Rome and Florence – maybe Venice.’
‘Yesterday you wanted to see Spain,’ I protested.
‘We could go there too. How about driving down through Europe? We could take a tent, spend the summer on the road?’
His enthusiasm was infectious. Practicalities didn’t come into it. Next summer’s Grand Tour of Europe became a frequent topic of conversation in those early days. It went without saying that Simon was included in these plans – apart from anything else, he was the only one of us who could drive.
In the meantime, although the lawn had been tamed and some desultory weeding undertaken, the landscaping was still no more than a series of sketches and a heap of good intentions. Nor had I become successfully established in my domestic role. I occasionally undertook a little dusting, which I didn’t mind because it entailed handling and examining the large collection of objects which littered the downstairs rooms – many of which I guessed were antiques and perhaps quite valuable. But my efforts never extended much beyond the first distraction to present itself, whether that be one of the musty books I discovered, or some fresh diversion dreamed up by Simon and Danny. My suntan improved with every day that passed, but this progress was not matched in the kitchen, where my lamentable culinary skills condemned us to a diet limited to anything which came with instructions on the packet: a repertoire of Vesta curries and fish fingers, about which in these early days there were only occasional complaints.
The large kitchen where these meals were prepared and consumed occupied one corner of the ground floor. It was grimly old-fashioned, painted in hospital green and cream with a quarry-tiled floor which was cold underfoot whatever the temperature elsewhere. Since our arrival it had become habitually untidy in spite of my sporadic efforts to keep abreast of the washing-up. There were always dirty cups and plates lying about, and a precariously balanced pyramid of kitchenware on the drainer – much of which never saw the inside of a cupboard at all, being recalled into use before anyone got round to putting it away.
On the morning after our trip to the coast, Danny and I followed our usual practice of lying in bed until the middle of the morning. When I finally got out of bed and wandered down to the kitchen, I was surprised – and I have to admit somewhat piqued – to find Trudie standing at the sink. She had looped her hair out of the way and was busily rinsing suds from a mixing bowl, which she placed on the draining board while I watched. The crockery mountain had vanished, replaced by a couple of recently used utensils and the bowl. There was a lidded saucepan simmering on the stove, and a distinct smell of baking emanated from the oven.
She must have heard my approach, because she turned to smile at me. ‘I hope it’s all right. I’m making lunch for everyone. Home-made soup and fruit cake. I found what I needed in the pantry. It’s to say thank you for letting me stay the night.’
I was about to mumble something ungracious, but the moment was transformed by Simon’s arrival; he entered the room, sniffing like a dog who’s been denied food too long, drawn no doubt by the unaccustomed smell of proper cooking.
We didn’t normally dignify our midday snacking with the name of lunch, but that day we sat at the big kitchen table, eating like civilized human beings. Towards the end of the meal, Simon announced that he was driving into town for some shopping.
‘Great,’ said Danny. ‘If you cash in all the empties, it’ll probably pay for next week’s food.’
Simon grinned. The amount of drink we were getting through had become a standing joke. ‘I’ve got to go to the off-licence anyway – can’t have the beer running low.’
At this point Trudie said she would have to gather her things ready for a lift into town, and Simon surprised us all by suddenly asking Trudie if she wouldn’t like to stick around for a few days.
Trudie jumped at the chance. ‘You guys are great,’ she said. ‘And this house – the garden is fab. I feel like I could stay here for ever.’
‘You could help Katy with the cooking and stuff,’ Simon said.
I was half cross and half relieved to have my role as sole cook and bottle washer unexpectedly usurped. I didn’t really expect Simon to solicit my views on the subject before inviting Trudie to chip in. I wasn’t used to consultation: at home my parents called the shots – here it was Simon or Danny.
So when Trudie accompanied Simon on the trip into Kington that afternoon, she left her tapestry holdall behind. At the time it didn’t particularly trouble me that, although Trudie chattered a lot, we still knew almost nothing about her. I was far more concerned about whether she had lost interest in Danny and latched on to Simon. I was certainly happy to interpret Simon’s invitation as a sign that something might be developing between them.
Left to ourselves, Danny and I went out to lie on the grass. It was too hot to do anything else. Apart from a solitary aeroplane trail, the sky was a sheet of uninterrupted blue. I had just started to wonder what it was that Trudie saw in the house and garden, when Danny interrupted my train of thought.
‘I wonder how much longer this weather’s going to last,’ he mused.
‘You’d better hope it doesn’t break before you get started,’ I said. ‘It’ll be horrible if you have to dig in the rain.’
‘There’s still masses of time.’
‘I know. Almost another three months before Simon’s uncle is due back.’
‘I bet it isn’t this hot in the Limousine,’ said Danny.
‘I hope Cecile remembers to post those cards,’ I said.
Cecile was the buddy from college with whom I had supposedly travelled to France, to spend the summer picking fruit at her g
randpa’s farm. I had given her a pack of lettercards to post back to my parents at suitable intervals, pre-written with innocuous messages to the effect that I was having fun, the work was quite tiring, the weather good, Cecile’s family kind to me and similar bland nonsense: all of which would help convince them that I was safely occupied overseas, under the chaperonage of my friend’s family, rather than fucking my boyfriend in rural Herefordshire. It wasn’t done, you see, respectable single girls shacking up with their boyfriends for the summer – not in my family anyway.
When Simon and Trudie returned that afternoon, she had a carrier bag full of fruit and veg. That night we feasted on sausages, jacket potatoes and fresh greens. As I helped myself to more gravy, I found I was warming to Trudie by the minute. It was the first decent meal we’d eaten in a fortnight.
Simon seemed to think that Trudie completed our team – with her to help me, he said, he and Danny could concentrate on the garden (not that I had noticed the cooking and housework distracting them overmuch). He proposed they commence the pond excavation the following day, even making some corny remark like ‘full steam ahead’, to which Danny raised a half-drunk bottle of Newcastle Brown in salute.
It was nice, I thought, for Simon to have someone – because that surely must be the way the wind was blowing. And not just anyone either; because there could be no denying that Trudie was beautiful. I suppose I hadn’t taken proper notice of her the day before, but I could see it now. She had well-proportioned features, dark brown eyes, and lips which could have been used in cosmetic ads. Moreover the loose-fitting smock and maxi skirt she’d been wearing on the beach had concealed her figure, which today’s cut-down denim shorts and white cotton shirt, rolled up under her bust, made very obvious. Trudie was positively stunning. No wonder Simon wanted her to stay.
All this made Trudie dangerously memorable. Mrs Ivanisovic only met her once – but it must have been enough.
I don’t want to face up to the letter, but what choice do I have?
Dear Mrs Ivanisovic,
I will visit you at 2 p.m. on Wednesday 25th, unless I hear from you that this date is inconvenient.
Yours sincerely,
K. Mayfield
SIX
Work began on the pond the day after Trudie joined our ménage. By the end of the morning the true magnitude of the task had become clear. Simon had delineated the proposed outline with a long piece of string, held down by a series of stones. Two hours of digging had produced a small uneven hole in the centre of this area, the greater portion of which was still unbroken ground.
After a break for cheese sandwiches and beer, the boys continued their efforts while Trudie set to work in the kitchen, peeling potatoes for our evening meal. Not wishing to be perceived a slacker, I took a duster from the cupboard in the pantry and headed for the room at the front of the house which we had christened the library. I started with the objects on the desk, then the desk itself, gathering a ridge of pale fluff on my duster, which I flicked on to the carpet, being unsure what else to do with it. After this I turned my attention to a small bookshelf which stood under the window. The books had faded spines, rusty browns and blue blacks, with titles printed in gold. I picked one out at random and opened it – tiny black print on stiff paper which had faded to a delicate shade resembling milky coffee; splotched here and there with spots of darker brown, as if some of the coffee granules had not quite dissolved. Someone had written on the flyleaf in black ink: For my god-daughter Emily from Aunt Grace. I replaced it next to Travels in Persia and Kurdistan, working my way down, vaguely flicking my duster across the contents of the upper two shelves, then kneeling on the red and black carpet to better reach the bottom one.
On the bottom shelf there was a pile of magazines, marginally less ancient than their hardback companions, the top one of which had been left folded open, as if someone had been reading it and not quite managed to finish the item of interest before it got tidied away. The uppermost article was headed An Intriguing Local Mystery, and when I pulled it out for a better look I saw that the accompanying picture was captioned Local beauty spot Bettis Wood.
I settled down to read, the duster in my hand forgotten.
Ludlow Castle has its White Lady and Hergest Hall is said to be haunted by the shade of Black Vaughn, but how many people know that Bettis Wood has a ghost of its own? Ever since Agnes Payne was murdered in the woods on a hot summer’s night in 1912, strange sights and sounds have been regularly reported there and local folk avoid the woods after dark.
Agnes Payne lived in a cottage about a mile from the woods with her husband Tom and their three small children. Tom was the local carpenter and had a reputation as something of a ladies’ man. All that summer he had been doing work for a wealthy widow called Martha Stokesby and, if local gossip was to be believed, he and Mrs Stokesby had become more than mere friends.
On the evening of 13th August, Tom finished work at Mrs Stokesby’s house rather later than usual and called at the inn for a glass of beer on his way home. Later that evening, a neighbour observed Agnes setting out from her cottage alone. It was not the first time she had been seen setting out alone for a late-evening stroll, but it would be the last.
According to Tom Payne, when he arrived home he found his children safely asleep, but his wife was unaccountably absent. He walked a little way along the road, but returned to the cottage when unable to find her. At first light he roused his nearest neighbours and a search was undertaken. Agnes was discovered in Bettis Wood, where she had been strangled with a silk scarf. Payne said the scarf did not belong to his wife and its origin was never identified.
Tom Payne was the chief suspect and had no alibi – but then a new witness came forward, a pedlar called Joel Rimey, who had been camping on the edge of the wood on the night of the murder. Rimey said he had seen a woman very like Agnes, in company with a man whom he could also describe. They had been walking along a footpath heading into the woods, at a spot not very far from where Agnes’ body was found. His description of the woman exactly fitted Agnes, right down to her paisley-patterned shawl; but the man he described – a bearded man with a dark coat and hat – was nothing like Tom Payne, who was clean shaven.
No arrest was ever made and the mystery remains unsolved to this day, but sometimes, late at night –
‘What have you got there?’ asked Trudie.
I gave a little squeak of alarm. ‘God, you startled me. I’m just reading this magazine I found. It’s about the wood down below. There’s a ghost story.’
‘Wow,’ said Trudie. ‘Let me see.’
I scanned the final sentence before handing it over; then waited in silence while she read it in her turn. When she had finished, she looked up at me with wide eyes. ‘So that’s it,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Ever since I got here, I’ve had these funny feelings about the wood. I’ve been looking at it out of my bedroom window and something has been kind of drawing me to it. It must be her – Agnes.’
‘Oh, come off it,’ I said. ‘You never said anything about it until now.’
Trudie shrugged, as if to indicate she didn’t much care whether I believed her or not. ‘I told you, I’ve got a gift.’ She swept out of the room before I could say anything else.
Abandoned to my dusting, I made a few more random swipes around the picture frames, before it struck me that perhaps I should have cautioned Trudie about mentioning the murder of Agnes Payne in front of Danny. I returned to the kitchen but the peeled potatoes were already in their pan of water and Trudie had decamped.
By the time I caught up with her in the garden, I realized I was too late. After leaving me she had evidently gone straight back to the kitchen to make a pot of tea for the workers, which she had already taken outside. Simon’s uncle’s house was so old-fashioned that there weren’t any mugs, just cups and saucers: some plain everyday green and white ones and a bone china service decorated in a pattern of pink roses. The latter looked scarily fragile
to me, but of course this was the set which Trudie had selected to carry into the garden for an afternoon tea break.
As I approached, I could hear her saying, ‘. . . and now her ghost haunts the woods. I suppose she’ll never rest until she gets justice.’
‘That doesn’t seem very likely now,’ said Simon. ‘When did you say it was – 1912? That’s sixty years ago. The guy’ll be dead by now.’
‘If it was a guy,’ said Trudie. ‘There’s the Other Woman, too.’
‘I thought you said she was seen going into the wood with a man.’
‘Well, yes – but it could have been a woman, disguised as a man.’
‘It could have been her husband, wearing a false beard,’ I said, flopping on to the grass next to Danny, who leant across to greet me with a peck on the cheek.
‘I doubt it,’ said Trudie. ‘I mean, surely she would have recognized her own husband.’
‘All the more reason for her to go into the woods with him.’
‘But why the false beard?’
‘Hang on,’ said Simon. ‘I’ve got it. What about the poacher bloke? Maybe he did it, then said he’d seen her with someone else, to throw everyone off the scent.’
‘Pedlar,’ I said. ‘He was a pedlar.’
Secretly I was just relieved at the half-jokey level of interest the story had provoked – because, until then, I had been doing the avoidance-of-certain-topics thing. I hadn’t quite been down the track of the Special Voice, but I had been careful not to mention either sudden death or the Timmins Prize. I was probably being oversensitive, but the circumstances of Danny’s winning the prize had been marred by tragedy and I sensed that he felt awkward about it. The prize was awarded by the faculty every year, to the geography student who gained the highest mark in the exams which marked the mid-point of the degree course. In the run-up to the exams it had been generally accepted that only two students were in serious contention that year – Danny Ivanisovic and a girl called Rachel Hewitt.
