by Purser, Ann
“Good morning, Miss Beasley! A fine day and my favourite student has made an early start. Excellent example to set to the other slackers.”
“I’ve got a reason, Mr. Rubens. Can you spare a minute? I want your permission to ask one or two of the day students if I could talk to their local families? They need to be in Barrington, or nearby. Not to put too fine a point on it, I want to pick their brains. How about it?”
“Is this concerning your own memoirs?”
“Yes, sort of. I need some farming background material, as instructed by Rickwood Smith. I myself come from the Midlands. Ended up here because of my cousin Deirdre. Lives at Tawny Wings—you must have met her?”
Peter Rubens’s eyes sparkled. “Oh yes, young Mrs. Bloxham. Very lovely person. We’ve met on a committee in Thornwell. Social work, with an emphasis on old people. I like to keep abreast, you know.”
“Right, well, I thought I should ask you. I hope there will be no objection?”
“None at all, Miss Beasley. I’ll get Stephanie to write a note of introduction for you. And if I can be of any help, do speak to me. I shall soon be staging a small drinks party for neighbours and friends who have been so kind to us since we opened up here. Perhaps Mrs. Bloxham might like to come along?”
Not a chance, you old idiot, thought Ivy. Mrs. Deirdre Bloxham is a rich and merry widow, and she has much bigger fish to fry than you, Peter Paul Rubens.
Thinking she would start with the young student who knew about farming, Ivy asked his name and planned to approach him at coffee time. Adam Broadbent, Rubens had said, and he confirmed that the lad was a day student and lived locally.
The first session of the day concerned source material for the memoir writer. Friends and relatives, old diaries and photograph albums, back copies of newspapers and magazines. In Ivy’s case, her contacts were few, and she had never kept a continuous diary. Her one very precious photo album was kept in a bag under her bed, and was seldom taken out. Perhaps this was the one occasion? She could show it to Roy, and hope that he was not dismayed by the small girl with skimpy pigtails and dark eyes hiding behind goggle-eyed spectacles.
And she was bandy legged! Over the years she had developed a habit of always wearing long skirts, well down her legs. “My skirts,” she would say, “cover a multitude of sins.”
She would do her best to remember what went on in the outside world, but back in Round Ringford, a tiny, isolated village in the middle of England, Ivy’s memoirs would chiefly concern her mother and father, and after her father’s death, life with a domineering, cruel-tongued mother.
Coffee time arrived, and Ivy sat down at the same table as Adam Broadbent. He held her chair for her and said politely that he had enjoyed the expedition she had suggested.
“A sad-looking place, though, isn’t it, Blackwoods Farm? Such a shame it has been allowed to deteriorate.”
“I agree. I did have a fancy that my dad might like to buy it for me, but times is hard and he couldn’t manage it.”
“I suppose your father remembers it as a useful going concern?”
“Not sure. You’d have to ask him.”
So, given this perfect opening, Ivy explained that she needed some background material for her memoirs. “You remember that Rickwood said we should interlace our own experiences with background material concerning the world at that time,” she said.
“Yeah, Dad’d certainly remember a lot about that.”
Ivy continued, saying that she needed someone with a farming background who could describe life back then, and Adam agreed to ask his grandmother if she could help. “She’d remember more than Dad. She lives with us, so you could come and have a cup of tea.”
• • •
BY LUNCHTIME, THE group were becoming well versed in extracts from other memoirs, especially those where a certain amount of “embroidering” had gone on. Dialogue would be encouraged, as long as the voice provided colour and authenticity.
“The Suffolk accent is wonderfully mellifluous,” enthused Rickwood.
“It sounds nice, too,” said Ivy.
“It’s quite singsong, really,” volunteered Samantha. “Not like in the West Country, but Suffolk and Norfolk are very recognisable.”
“Remember the Singing Postman?” said Ivy. “Ha’ y’got a loyt, boiy?”
“Yes, well, we must get on,” said Rickwood, with an uncomfortable feeling he was being sent up. “My watch tells me it’s nearly lunchtime.”
“I expect Adam can produce a true Suffolk accent?” Ivy was enjoying herself.
“Oh, yeah. Here goes. ‘Where y’bin?’ ‘Bin t’swaff’m, t’do some thrashin’. All f’nuth’n. That’s s’uthn.’ Will that do, Miss Beasley?”
• • •
AFTER CLASS FINISHED, Adam suggested Ivy should come along with him straight away.
“Dad always comes in for a cup around four,” he said. “He’ll be only too pleased to have an excuse to stay in the kitchen for longer, and he can get Gran going.”
“Shouldn’t you first ask your parents if they mind my coming?”
Adam pulled out his mobile with a flourish, had a few words with his mother, and smiled. “Fine. You’d be very welcome,” he said. “Grannie loves to talk about the old days.”
• • •
THE KITCHEN OF the old farmhouse was warm, and smelt of generations of good cooking. Ivy sat comfortably in an old chair that left white dog hairs on her skirt, and listened to Grannie Broadbent reminisce.
“How clear your memories are!” she said, after a while. “I couldn’t possibly remember so much. Perhaps it should be you writing your memoirs!”
“It’s the farming community, I reckon,” he said. “We all know each other and swap stories when we meet.”
“I suppose you remember Ted Blatch and his family? Didn’t they live at Blackwoods Farm?”
“Oh, yes, Ted was a one with the ladies. He married an outsider. That’s what we called anyone coming in from more than twenty miles away! Pretty girl, Eleanor was, too. Shame she came to a sticky end.”
“Did she settle in all right?” persisted Ivy. “Must have been difficult, with her family coming from up north?”
“Yes, though we never met them,” said Adam’s father. I think her young sister, Mary, came down once, when Eleanor had a miss. Then the Blatches never had no more children, and that was a sore disappointment. No sons. Nor no daughters, either. Speaking of which, you would have loved a daughter, eh, missus?”
“Not too late, mind,” Grannie Broadbent added slyly.
Adam looked embarrassed, but Ivy laughed. “Never too late,” she said. “I suppose the Blatches went on trying?”
“Not sure.”
Ivy had a feeling they were clamming up on the subject of the Blatches, but ploughed on. “Eleanor must’ve needed friends. My mother always used to say you made friends at the school gate, waiting for little ’uns to come out.”
“Miss Eleanor died recently, as I’m sure you know,” said Adam’s mother, clearly attempting to draw a line under the subject.
“And Mary?” said Ivy. “What happened to her?” She held her breath, waiting for an answer.
With a quick look at Adam’s father, Mrs. Broadbent shook her head. “Mary who?” she said.
“Winchen. Eleanor’s sister,” Ivy reminded her. Goodwill was ebbing away.
“Oh, her,” said Mrs. Broadbent. Both she and her husband shook their heads, and even Adam looked absently out of the window.
“Don’t know nothing about Mary,” old Grannie Broadbent said finally. “As I said, we never met the Winchen family. Now, Miss Beasley, how about another cup of tea?”
• • •
“I AM SURE they were hiding something,” said Ivy, as she sat with Roy in her room. “Definitely shifty, all three of them. Not hiding, so much as unwilling to ta
lk about her. They would surely know about Mary Winchen now, though. A disabled lady living in Spinney Close?”
“Very likely. But village politics can be very tricky, as I’m sure you know. Still, you did your best, my love. Deirdre and Gus might have more luck up in Boston. I myself have not been idle.”
“Roy, my dear, of course you haven’t! Tell all.”
“That, Ivy, is an expression you have picked up from young Katya, and I am sure would be frowned on by tutor Rickwood. But I will tell you all that I have discovered from sitting in the lounge and listening to our fellow guests here in Springfields.”
Suitably subdued, Ivy pecked him on the cheek. “Never thought of that,” she said. “Old folks’ memories on our doorstep! Who did you speak to?”
“Well, I decided to tackle the dreaded Mrs. Cornwall. Very large, very fond of lavender water, and with a very loud voice and loud opinions. Mrs. Cornwall, the very same.”
“Oh lor, Roy. Very brave of you. How did you get on?”
“Well, as usual, my dear, with bullies, face up to them and they crumble. She was very pleasant and extremely helpful.”
“Has she always lived in Barrington?”
“Yes, from being born in a barn one winter’s night when her mother hadn’t time to get back to the house.”
“Very colourful,” said Ivy. “So come on, Roy, did she remember anything about Mary Winchen?”
“Yes,” said Roy. “She did.” He turned to adjust the cushion behind his back.
“Roy, I am breaking off our engagement if you don’t tell me exactly what she said!”
“We talked about the sad death of Eleanor, and then Mrs. Cornwall volunteered the information that Mary would get the money, after all. That’s all she said. Dropped off to sleep, then, or pretended to. I touched her hand, but she didn’t wake up.”
“Roy! That is very important. And fits in with what Mrs. Broadbent said to me not two hours ago. She mentioned the younger sister, Mary. We’ve always thought Eleanor was the eldest of the two, haven’t we, so we were right there.”
“Elder of two, eldest of many. I mention that only because you are now in the writing game.”
“Mm, but you don’t know that there weren’t more children than Mary and Eleanor. There might have been Tom, Dick and Harry as well.”
“There you are, then,” said Roy.
Forty-three
WHEN GUS TELEPHONED from Boston, he was anxious to know how Ivy and Roy had progressed with their enquiries. He explained that he and Deirdre had drawn a blank so far. They would not be able to look at the registry office records until tomorrow, and so had wasted time wandering around graveyards and accosting elderly people in the street asking if they remembered the Winchen family.
“Bad luck,” said Roy. “You’ll be glad to hear that Ivy and I have not been idle. I’ll put her on.”
“Hello, Gus. Oh, it’s Deirdre now. Hello, dear, how are you enjoying Boston?”
“We’re not here to enjoy it, Ivy, as you very well know. But I must say the keen east wind is enough to freeze you solid. Turn a corner of a street and you run slap into it. You’d never know it is still summer! It is just like a slap in the face. We did find some Winchens in the graveyard, but all from the nineteenth century. Quite posh graves, so I imagine they were a wealthy family. One of the gravestones praises a Walter Winchen for his charitable acts in helping the poor.”
“Very interesting. Anything else?”
“No, but we’ve got a special dispensation to look in the register records tomorrow, and let’s hope that will be more fruitful. Now, how about you and Roy?”
“Well, I didn’t have much luck, either, talking to a farming couple, parents of one of the college students, and his grannie. They were friendly, and knew Eleanor, of course, and also—and here’s the nugget of gold. Apparently Eleanor was once pregnant, but lost the baby, and Mary came down to look after her. But according to the farmer and his wife and the grandmother, she never came again. At least, not to their knowledge.”
“That is interesting, Ivy. Did they say anything else?”
“No, only polite conversation.”
“And Roy?”
“He did better. Talked to one of our residents, who remembered the Winchens visiting Barrington. One sister married Ted Blatch, and the other went off somewhere else. She was a bit hazy about that, apparently. But then she said, out of nowhere, that now Eleanor was dead, Mary would get all the money, after all.”
“Doesn’t that make sense, if Mary was younger?”
“That’s what we have to find out. But there was a problem, that’s for sure. We’ll talk about it tomorrow when you get back. Can you come here in the evening? Or come to tea?”
“Depends on how we get on in the registry office. We’ll ring you.”
• • •
IT WAS LATE by the time Peter Rubens, up at the Manor House, had finished his paperwork and gone round locking doors and putting out lights. His electricity bill was enormous, and he planned to give a lecture to students on putting out lights in unoccupied rooms.
His daughter, Stephanie, was playing loud music in her room, and from across the yard he could hear voices talking and laughing. All going well, he thought. How lucky he was, to have come across the Manor House, being exactly what he was looking for. His thoughts turned to Rickwood Smith and all the rumours surrounding him. He had proved a very useful tutor and had said nothing about leaving. He hoped the farm would be sold and Rickwood become a fixture at the college. The loud music dimmed down, and was eventually switched off. With a sigh of relief, Peter drifted into sleep.
• • •
NEXT MORNING, ROY woke early, and thought he would toddle along to Ivy’s room to share a cup of tea and plan their day. He climbed out of bed, reached for his stick, and limped slowly along the landing. Bright sunlight streamed through a window, and he could see the sky was blue and cloudless. His spirits rose. Perhaps he and Ivy would be able to take Elvis and his taxi into town, and do some frivolous shopping. The Winchen Blatch case was moving along. Slowly, certainly, but after Deirdre had had her interview with Mrs. Winchen, things should be a lot clearer. And even more so if she was able to extract information from Inspector Frobisher. So they were all waiting for Deirdre.
A gentle morning in Thornwell would take their minds off it and clear the air for both. Perhaps Ivy would allow him to buy her a present! She was very strict about such things, being unwilling that he should spend money on her until they were formally married. And that was not long to go now, so perhaps she would relax the rules.
Ivy heard his tap on her door, and called to him to come in. She sat up in bed, whipped off her hairnet, and did her best to adjust her nightdress neatly. First impressions are most important, she told herself, and the thought made her smile. She and Roy had been more or less permanent companions for so long now that short of seeing her totally naked, he was familiar with her every mood and appearance.
“Good morning, beloved!” he said. “You’re looking as beautiful as ever. The sun is shining, I am pleased to say, and I have come to share an early cuppa with you. I saw Katya on her way up the stairs, so she should be here in less than a minute.”
“How did you sleep, Roy?” Ivy said. “I couldn’t go off for ages. Winchen Blatches kept passing before my eyes in ever increasing numbers! Anyway, I made a few notes—here, take the book—so that we know exactly what we are doing. Please add anything you think I’ve missed. Then we can get going straight away.”
Roy shook his head. “No, not straight away, Ivy dear. This morning I am ordering Elvis to pick us up at ten o’clock and take us into Thornwell, where we shall have our favourite coffee and doughnuts, and visit my friend the jeweller, where I am going to buy you a sparkling jewel to wear on your bosom.”
Ivy stared at him. “Are you feeling all right, Roy?” she said.<
br />
“Never better,” he said. “Ah, here’s Katya with our tea. Morning, my dear, how’s the bump coming along?”
Katya smiled. Roy was a specially nice resident in her eyes. “I think he was playing football last night,” she said. “Kicking away for hours. I could actually see his little feet making small humps on my stomach! Isn’t it exciting?”
“Did he win?” said Ivy, also smiling. “Oh, good, you’ve brought two cups.”
“I spied Mr. Goodman on his naughty way to your bedroom,” Katya replied.
After she had disappeared, Ivy returned to the attack. “We cannot possibly afford the time to do all that,” she said. “I plan to go down to the church, to find Miriam Blake, who is always there on a Saturday morning, busying herself about God knows what.”
“I expect he does,” said Roy mildly. “May I ask what you plan to say to her?”
“I’m going to search her memory. She hasn’t got much sense, but her memory is unusually good.”
“How old do you reckon Eleanor was when she died?” Roy said thoughtfully. “I would have said sixty-ish.”
“Difficult to say. When we first met her, when she came to ask for our help, she looked dreadful. Old and unkempt. But after she came out of hospital that time, and got herself together with Deirdre’s help, she looked years younger. Probably sixtyish, I would say.”
“So this sister, Mary, who is younger, would be anything from midfifties to sixty? Miriam Blake is well into her forties, and so could possibly remember something, but not much, I would say.”
“Are you trying to say it is not worth my going to see her?”
“I think she has already told us more or less all she knows. Other more urgent things for us to do. Like booking Elvis for Saturday, and getting out of Barrington for a few hours. It will still be here when we get back. What do you say, dearest?”
Ivy frowned. She wanted to say that his suggestion was rubbish, but she was learning, and so nodded instead. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said.
Forty-four
