Forbidden Places

by Penny Vincenzi

  After lunch that day, Charles fell asleep. She decided to take advantage of it, and go for a walk. She called the dogs, set out across the paddock, thinking how nice it was not to have Lara there. The horse would be back soon, she supposed; she had tried to persuade Charles to sell her, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

  She walked further than she had intended; on the way back she saw the school bus coming in, Elspeth getting off it. She waved at her.

  ‘Elspeth! I had a phone call about your exam this morning. There are some scales and chords you need to practise. If you come back with me now, we can run through them. All right?’

  Elspeth nodded. ‘How’s David?’ she asked casually as they walked up the drive. ‘I never hear from him. He said he’d write to me, but—’

  Her voice was forlorn. Grace smiled at her. ‘Oh – fine. Very grown up. Terribly busy. They’re going to Australia, you know,’ she added, trying to sound unconcerned. ‘He’ll probably send you a postcard from there.’ I must tell him to do that, she thought, when I see him on the twenty-fourth.

  ‘Australia! Oh my goodness. That’s a long way. I’ll never see him again then.’

  ‘Oh I don’t know,’ said Grace. ‘When you’re a famous concert pianist you can go on a tour there.’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ said Elspeth with a grin.

  Charles had hobbled into the kitchen, was sitting stony-faced, eating bread and jam. ‘I was terribly hungry,’ he said. ‘Where on earth have you been?’

  ‘Just walking. I’ve brought Elspeth back with me, she’s doing her scholarship exam in a week. I just want to give her a short lesson now, Charles—’

  ‘Well, could you make me some tea first, please? I’m absolutely parched.’

  ‘Yes of course I will. Now, Elspeth,’ said Grace, picking up her bag, ‘I’ve made a note of these scales, you can make a start on them – That’s funny. I could have sworn it was in here.’

  She looked round the kitchen distractedly. ‘Charles, you haven’t taken an envelope out of my bag, have you?’

  ‘No of course not. What sort of envelope?’

  ‘A small brown one. I just scribbled some notes for Elspeth on the back.’

  She hoped he hadn’t, hoped he hadn’t read it. It didn’t exactly matter, but – She looked at him sharply; but he was sitting scowling at the paper. ‘Look, Grace, I have better things to do than go through your bag. Well, slightly better.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘I wonder – well look, Elspeth, go and run through your other scales and I’ll try to find—’

  ‘Do you have to do this now?’ said Charles. ‘I really want something to eat, it’s after five—’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Grace firmly, ‘and it won’t take a minute. Well, about fifteen, if I can only find the wretched list.’

  While she was making the tea she suddenly saw the letter; it was on the floor, under the kitchen table. It must have fallen out of her bag while she was getting out her purse or something.

  When Elspeth was halfway through her practice, she heard Mr Bennett calling Mrs Bennett from the study, telling her to make him a cup of tea, that he couldn’t wait any longer. She was just thinking how horrid to her he was when he hobbled in on his crutches and gave her a letter.

  ‘Post this for me, would you?’ he said. ‘It’s very important. It’s to do with a surprise for Mrs Bennett. No need to mention it to her.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Bennett,’ said Elspeth, pushing it into her pocket. ‘I mean no, Mr Bennett.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Brian Meredith. ‘Oh Lord. I was a bit worried about something like this.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Sandra.

  ‘I wish I hadn’t said anything to that man. That man on the phone, about Mr Bennett’s ring. Look at this, Sandra.’

  He passed Sandra a letter; it was headed Bennett & Bennett, Solicitors, Bell Street, Shaftesbury.

  ‘Thought Mr Bennett was dead,’ said Sandra.

  ‘Yes, well, he is, that’s just the firm. Obviously. This is from that Mr Jacobs I spoke to. I told you he—’

  ‘Shush, Deirdre,’ said Sandra. ‘I’m reading. You eat that egg up, there’s poor people starving all over the world be glad of that egg. Oh I shouldn’t take any notice of this, Brian. They can’t do anything to you. You’re not in the army now.’

  ‘No, but –’ He took it back, read it again.

  Dear Mr Meredith,

  Following your phone call the other day, I must repeat that you should make no further contact with Mrs Bennett. Apart from distressing her, the repercussions could be most unfortunate for you. You must understand that what you did in removing any of Major Bennett’s belongings was strictly illegal and you had no right to do so. It could be considered theft in a court of law.

  Because I am sure you would not wish things to come to such a pass, please send the ring as instructed, to me, at the above address, with your assurance that as far as you are concerned the entire matter is closed.

  Above all, I repeat, trying to make any contact with Mrs Bennett would prejudice your case.

  Yours sincerely,

  Michael Jacobs

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Brian Meredith again.

  ‘Best do what he says,’ said Sandra, ‘but don’t worry, Brian, they can’t do nothing to you really.’

  She hoped she sounded more convincing than she felt.

  ‘And then every day we’ll be surfing,’ said Daniel, trying to sound as if he was really looking forward to it, ‘and having picnics on the beach and that. And Dad says the people are really friendly and nice. And—’

  ‘Shut up a minute, Dan,’ said David. ‘Grace doesn’t want to hear all that.’

  ‘Yes I do,’ said Grace. But she smiled at David to show she appreciated his thoughtfulness. He was very thoughtful, very sensitive. Like – well, like she’d always known he would be.

  ‘Well anyway. How’s Sir Clifford?’

  ‘He’s very well. He sent his love. And he sent you these – one each.’ She produced two packages and handed them over.

  ‘Crikey!’ said Daniel.

  ‘Blimey!’ said David.

  They were two wallets, grown-up wallets, in leather; how Clifford had got hold of them Grace couldn’t imagine. She smiled at the boys. ‘Nice, aren’t they?’

  ‘Really nice. We did think he might come, Sir Clifford—’

  ‘No, he’s with – with my husband,’ said Grace, thinking lovingly of Clifford who had, in response to her urgent request, not only come to sit with Charles for the afternoon, but had also told him that some documents had arrived from the London office needing his urgent attention.

  ‘Been here for a few weeks actually,’ he’d said, winking at Grace, ‘but I really shouldn’t have left them so long. Quite complex, some of them. Take a long time to go through. Give the little tykes my love.’

  ‘We’re going to stay with Clarissa,’ said David, ‘us and Dad. On our last night before we get the flying boat.’

  ‘Oh really?’ said Grace, trying to sound as if she didn’t mind at all, as if the red-hot jealousy wasn’t flooding her, as if the thought of Ben and the boys spending an evening with Clarissa, laughing, joking, chatting, being hugged and kissed by her, being called her darlings, left her quite calm and unbothered. ‘Well, that will be nice for you. Tell her – well, tell her I’ll come and see her soon.’

  ‘Yeah, OK.’

  ‘And are you all packed up?’

  ‘Nearly. Dan’s not helping. Won’t put half his things away,’ said David.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘You won’t.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Boys, boys. What sort of things?’

  ‘Well, the things you gave me mostly,’ said Daniel. ‘The picture of Floss and Charlotte, and those paints, and – well, that’s all.’

  ‘And your old teddy,’ said David.

  ‘Yeah, well, Mum gave me that.’

  ‘And the golliwog Grace gave you.’

  ‘Well, you’ve sti
ll got the picture of you and Elspeth the last day of school.’

  ‘Oh, that reminds me,’ said Grace, feeling less jealous suddenly at this catalogue of memorabilia. ‘David, will you promise me to send Elspeth a postcard from Australia. She really misses you—’

  ‘Look at his face!’ said Daniel. ‘It’s all red.’ He clasped his hand to his heart and rolled his eyes dramatically to the ceiling.

  ‘Be quiet, Daniel. Anyway, she’s doing a scholarship exam tomorrow. A music scholarship, that is. I’m very hopeful for her, actually.’

  ‘Yeah, OK,’ said David. His face was still crimson.

  ‘Aren’t you going to send her your love?’ said Daniel. ‘Say good luck and that?’

  ‘Course I’m not,’ said David.

  ‘That’s not very nice,’ said Grace.

  Saying goodbye to them was the hardest thing she could ever remember doing. She stood in the doorway of the Bear and put her arms round Daniel and held his small skinny body, remembering, remembering the first time she had seen him, a tiny pale thing, with huge eyes in a frightened face, clinging to her hand as they left the town hall as if he would never let it go, remembering him importantly collecting eggs, feeding the chickens, playing with Floss, coming home from school always filthy, always covered in bruises, remembered him huddled against her on the old sofa, asleep, remembered looking at him lying white and still in the hospital bed, remembering – oh God – remembering the ward sister saying, ‘Go home to bed, it’s the sensible thing to do.’ She wrenched them out of her head, the memories, put Daniel gently out of her arms, tried to smile through her tears and failed totally.

  ‘I love you, Grace,’ he said, ‘I’ll miss you so much. I wish you could come too.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said, ‘you know I can’t,’ and then as she stood there, fighting not just tears now but sobs, David said quietly, gently, ‘Goodbye then, Grace,’ and held out his hand, very grown-up. She took it, was about to shake it when he suddenly took a rather odd shaky breath and put his arms round her, tightly; he was tall now, and now there were more memories, horribly, intensely vivid, and she could feel other arms, another long, rangy body, see another dark head and deep-set dark eyes, hear another quiet, gentle voice, and it was more, she thought, than she could possibly bear.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said suddenly, fiercely. ‘Now you be good. Very good. Write a lot. And – and tell your dad I—’

  ‘That you still love him?’ said Daniel hopefully.

  ‘No. No, you mustn’t say that. Just tell him I hope it will all go very well, Daniel, please.’

  When she got home, she told Charles she had a migraine and was going to bed and asked Clifford to get him his supper.

  ‘You don’t want anything?’ he said gently, seeing her white-faced misery, knowing, realizing why.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘no thank you, Clifford. Well, nothing you can get me. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t say sorry,’ he said, and couldn’t understand why her face suddenly crumpled, and she turned and ran up the stairs without another word.

  In the morning she felt almost cheerful; she supposed because the ordeal was over. She had said goodbye, they had gone – to all intents and purposes – and she could truly regard them as out of her life. She had to; she had no alternative.

  Charles was fretful, difficult, annoyed she was going out yet again – to take Elspeth to her exam – impatient with his leg which had stopped hurting and now itched intolerably under the plaster.

  ‘Look, Mrs Babbage is coming to look after you for the morning. I’ll tell her to bring you one of her extra-long knitting needles. To push down the plaster,’ she added.

  ‘Right,’ said Grace. ‘You ready, Elspeth?’

  ‘Yes, I think so, miss. Ready as I’ll ever be.’

  ‘Good. Now, Charles, we’ll be back in a couple of hours. I’ll pick up your post from the office. And Mrs Babbage will do your lunch, if you want it early. Oh heavens—’

  It was the phone: Mrs Boscombe’s voice. ‘Mrs Bennett, dear, a message for you. Well, for Elspeth actually. From young David. Said to wish her good luck. He tried earlier, but he couldn’t get through. I expect the major’s very busy.’

  ‘Oh how lovely of him,’ said Grace, her eyes filling with tears. ‘How kind of you, Mrs Boscombe.’

  ‘Yes, well, I won’t be doing this much longer,’ said Mrs Boscombe. ‘They’re bringing in the automatic down here, I heard.’ She sounded outraged.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Grace, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s not right, is it? Not round here. Oh, now that reminds me, Mrs Bennett, I found a message for you the other day, left on my day off it was. Did you ever get it, my dear? From a Mr Meredith?’

  ‘A who?’ said Grace.

  ‘Mr Meredith, that’s what it says here. Can’t meet you, he’ll be in touch again. Does that make sense?’

  ‘I think so, yes,’ said Grace very slowly. ‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Boscombe. Er – when was your day off?’

  ‘Last Thursday. Wish Elspeth luck from me as well, won’t you?’

  Grace put the phone back very gently. She forced a smile at Elspeth. ‘That was a message. From David. Good luck. Isn’t that nice?’

  ‘David?’ said Elspeth. ‘David Lucas? Oh my good Lord!’

  Grace had never seen her so excited.

  She sat outside listening while Elspeth played (most beautifully), her mind racing. Thursday. When she had gone shopping, and Charles had said emphatically there had been no phone calls for her. Well, maybe he had been asleep. Or maybe Mr Meredith hadn’t been able to get through. Charles’s calls were endless. Yes, that was probably it. But then there had also been the slightly baffling business with the letter from Mr Meredith. Missing from her bag, and then found under the table. She had put it back so carefully, had actually zipped it into the pocket (knowing how important those details were, of Elspeth’s scales and chords and so on). Letters didn’t actually leap out of such places of their own free will. But then why should Charles lie about such a thing? Unless he didn’t want her meeting Mr Meredith, was upset at the prospect. It was understandable, she supposed, although she wasn’t quite sure why.

  Anyway, she could write back to him, suggest another meeting. Probably best not to worry Charles, if it bothered him so much.

  Elspeth came out beaming. ‘Whether I got it or not,’ she said, ‘I had a nice time. She was really lovely. I had to sing, as well. She said we’d know in a couple of days.’

  ‘A couple of long days,’ said Grace, smiling at her. ‘Well done. Look, Elspeth, if you don’t mind we’ll go back through Shaftesbury. I’ve got a couple of things to pick up from my husband’s office.’

  ‘No, that’d be fine,’ said Elspeth.

  The secretary at Bennett & Bennett had a pile of post for Charles. ‘And there’s this for Mr Jacobs. From London. Obviously some-one doesn’t know he’s retired. Do you want to take it, Mrs Bennett?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace, ‘yes, I will. Thank you.’

  When she got home Mrs Babbage had gone; Charles was lying on the sofa looking pained.

  ‘Made me some horrible salad, covered it in vinegar and didn’t give me anything to drink. Honestly, Grace, I’ve been very patient but—’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Grace. She fled out to the kitchen, putting the pile of post down on the chair in the hall as she passed.

  ‘And call these dogs, will you? They’re driving me mad.’

  ‘Puppy!’ said Grace. ‘Charlotte! Out of there.’

  This was proving quite a day. At least it distracted her from her thoughts of yesterday – and of the day after tomorrow.

  Much later, as Charles had his nap (having tried and failed to get his secretary three times and become even more bad-tempered), she went rather wearily out into the garden. It was a lovely day; summer had suddenly arrived, as it so often did, the sky hazily blue, the lavender bushes and the honeysuckle alive with bees, the air thick with birdsong. She thought, despite
trying very hard not to, of Ben and the boys, with only forty-eight hours left in England; she tried to imagine leaving for ever, wondering what it could possibly feel like to see the country literally disappearing from view.

  Puppy suddenly appeared beside her, presenting something proudly in her jaws; a half-open package. ‘Oh Puppy,’ said Grace sternly, ‘that is naughty. You should have grown out of that sort of thing. And it’s for your master. Let me have it. Oh dear—’ And then she was silent, opening the inner package carefully, very carefully. First tissue paper, then cotton wool and finally she could see what it was: a ring, a gold signet ring, with the initials CB engraved on it.

  And only slightly chewed, still absolutely legible, a letter. A letter signed Brian Meredith.

  Dear Mr Jacobs,

  I am returning the ring as instructed. I am so sorry, did not mean any harm, nor intend anything illegal. I give you my assurance not to contact Mrs Bennett further and wish her better from her illness.

  Yrs truly,

  B. Meredith

  ‘Oh God,’ said Grace aloud. ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘Right,’ said Ben, ‘last night in the old home.’

  ‘There’s a painting called that,’ said David.

  ‘Yes, I know. You’re not the only one who’s been to school. Shall we have fish and chips? As a treat?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Daniel. ‘D’you think they have fish and chips in Australia?’

  ‘Nah,’ said David.

  ‘They’d better,’ said Ben.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ said Sandra. ‘It’s a telegram. Oh my good Lord, I hope it’s not Mum. Deirdre, turn that wireless off, there’s a good girl. Oh God, I can’t look. Oh, why isn’t your dad here? If it’s Mum I’ll never forgive myself.’

  She ripped open the envelope, read the telegram. ‘Well, well, well,’ she said, ‘what do you know! Thought it was funny, that letter. No reply,’ she said to the telegram boy. ‘Thank you.’