Ruby returned, her hands behind her back.
‘Show me what you’ve picked,’ I said. ‘Perhaps we can...’
She opened her fingers to reveal a crushed little posy.
‘Violets!’ I said, shocked. ‘Why did you choose those?’
‘Because she says they’re unlucky – she says they mean death if they’re brought indoors.’ She chuckled and suddenly those hypnotic green eyes became narrow and black.
‘My mother used to think that too!’ I said, trying to sound calm. ‘She was an old country woman, like your mother. Only old country woman believe that – I thought you wanted to be a smart Missensham lady, with a grey mare!’
That was enough to convince her and we left the posy of violets behind and walked back to the cottage with Ruby clutching a bunch of wilting primroses and scowling all the way.
‘Why are you pulling faces now?’ I said.
‘I’m hungry. She didn’t have money for jam this morning.’
‘At least you had the bread and butter, didn’t you?’ I said, although I couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for her. I thought of the silver rattle again and how much bread and jam it could have bought with pawn shop money. Then I had an idea: ‘Look, I visited you today, why don’t you visit me on Saturday, and I can make you some nice food.’
‘Like what?’ she said.
‘Jam,’ I said. ‘Strawberry jam – no, what would you like? If you could have anything in the world?’
She frowned. ‘Lemonade,’ she said, ‘…and bla-mongsh’, she spat the last word out, like it was just syllables she’d heard but not understood and I wondered if she even knew what blancmange was, let alone whether she liked it.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, why not?’
I took her hand but she looked right past me and I heard feet thundering behind me as Jim and John ran down the hill: ‘Bla-mongsh? Are you having a party, Miss?’
I stood open-mouthed, but they waited expectantly.
‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘I suppose I am.’
The boys clapped gleefully.
‘Well, I suppose you are invited then.’ I said, feeling I didn’t have a choice any more. ‘Yes, it will be a big party. You can all come.’
Jim and John ran off cheering. I felt my stomach sink. I’m not sure, but I like to think that Ruby looked disappointed too.
I suddenly started to panic. I was having a party! There would be food to buy, and drink too, invitations to write. Wait a minute! Invitations to whom? How could someone with no friends throw a party? And then there would be the matter of telling George… and then making sure Mr Tuttle wouldn’t get in the way… and then making something suitable to wear… and then making the house spotless and bunting, and tablecloths and placemats and glasses and napkins and…
…And then Mrs Brown was calling me back indoors because the garments had arrived. Somewhere in the distant country lanes, the factory van grumbled its way back to London but I barely heard it. Maud’s cursing and the laughs and shouts of ‘bla-mongsh’ faded away into the air and I was left alone with my thoughts. There would be no turning back once the Browns had visited Little Willow. They would find out where I lived, bump into my neighbours and meet George and, little by little, I began to realize what I had done.
12
I had last held the rattle on a cold morning in 1926. I remember turning it in my hand – a solid silver bar, with four bells forming a crown round the top and an ivory ring at the bottom. Ornate scrolls were etched into the silver and, in the middle, the letters VM were engraved, the initials of George’s father, Victor Marks. It was a royal sceptre, a religious relic, hard and cold against my skin – something you would expect to see in the hands of an emperor or a bishop, not next to the soft flesh of a baby.
I tried to imagine the rattle in the hands of a young George, swaddled in lace under the huge black hood of a Victorian pram. But the face I saw in the pram was not that of a baby, it was George’s face as I knew it, a face with wrinkles and little round spectacles and I realized that I couldn’t imagine George as a baby any more than I could imagine George being a young man.
On that morning frost had come in the middle of May, and at ten o’clock the sky shone red like a sunset and nothing seemed to make sense.
I stood in the lichgate of St Benedict’s, upright and rigid in shoes that cut like glass, my temple throbbing with the monotonous clank of an iron bell, the air cold and bitter with the tang of the moss on the tombstones.
This was the church of the old town. It was an ancient construction of jagged flint, tucked away in a triangle between road, canal and railway, and shielded from all by black yew trees. It was a forgotten place, the echo of long-departed trains rattling through the cutting as if phantoms of the modern world.
George stood by my side as a thin trail of mourners wound their way to the church door. They were mostly George’s family; his brother from Oxworth and some vague, distant relatives, all afflicted by the Marks’s high, hunched shoulders and shuffling gait. They came with stammered condolences and stiff handshakes, the women wiping tears from behind little round spectacles. My own family would have offered condolences too, but they had to make do with just watching, their wishes sent from deep beneath the earth. It was a small number of mourners, but then it was a small church, with a small coffin – a small funeral for a small life.
When the family had passed, George and I were alone, the warble of the organ blunted by the mist rising from the canal. That day was to be the end of it and suddenly I felt that I couldn’t bear any more reminders; there had already been too many.
I thrust the rattle into George’s hand. ‘Please, George, please take it through and get them to put it in the coffin.’
He hesitated and cocked his head, the glass in his spectacles misting over. ‘It’s too late,’ he said. ‘Far too late. Everything has been arranged for days, everybody has gone to such a lot of trouble. You can’t just—’
‘Please,’ I said. ‘It has to go with her – where it should be.’
He didn’t say anything, but I saw all his protests in his face – the loss of his family heirloom, bothering the vicar, the embarrassment of it all. But he swallowed it inside himself. Then he nodded and took the rattle from me, disappearing down into the dark archway. I stood alone for a few minutes, watching my breath as it clouded in the air, and then I followed him into the church.
13
Saturday came with the call of blackbirds at daybreak. By six o’clock the garden looked beautiful. Mr Tuttle had constructed two long plank tables on the lawn and I had covered them with white bedsheets, plates and glasses. There were platters for sandwiches on the tables, jugs for lemonade and flags left over from the King’s Jubilee celebrations. A trail of bunting led from the garden to the kitchen, where I worked through the sunrise setting jellies and baking cakes.
George came down at eight. The look on his face and his half-dressed appearance supposedly evidence for the speech that followed about back pain which meant he would be confined to bed all day. He said how terribly sorry he was that he would miss all the ‘jollity’ but something on his face told me that he was looking forward to a day in bed with a newspaper and a bottle of chlorodyne; time to himself, spent in a fug of narcotics that would blunt the pain of the womanly social engagement. I found that I was disappointed but not surprised.
Audrey was the first to arrive, in a flurry of silk and feathers. She was ten minutes early, because she wanted to help out and lend support, she said, as she cast her eye over the garden, adding: ‘There’s so little one can do during a depression, isn’t there?’
I watched Ethel and Alan chasing round the lawn, their new boots cutting muddy dents into the grass. ‘I suppose so,’ I said.
Audrey placed two bottles of wine on the kitchen table. ‘Chardonnay!’ she whispered. ‘We mustn’t let George know that there is anything French in the house – he would have a fit.’ She put a finger to her lips and giggled. ‘Silly old
man, Forsham would be too exotic for him and there’s probably a Huguenot tailor in the high street there too.’
‘Oh, I think it’s because of the war,’ I said. ‘He somehow blames the French for—’
‘I noticed you are decorating,’ said Audrey.
‘Yes,’ I said, realizing that she must have peeped under the Union Jack that covered the paint pots in the hallway.
‘Who have you got in?’
‘Tuttle and Son, Master decor—’
‘Oh, dear old Mr. Tuttle.’ She laughed. ‘I can see why George would want him. Nothing too modern for our George, nothing too expensive. You know, I didn’t know old Tuttle was still around until I saw his bicycle up on the green the other day. The sign was almost falling off. Still, a sweet old man.’ She smiled. ‘A drunk maybe, but a sweet old man.’
I thought about how I had found Mr Tuttle’s hammer in the kitchen sink that morning and was inclined to agree, if not admit it. ‘George seems to think he’s a very upright and amiable fellow,’ I said. ‘Even says he’s seen him leaving flowers on the memorial many a time. He says that Mr Tuttle has a neurological condition, something to do with electrical impulses and neurons misfiring. Like thousands of microscopic electrical cables losing their connections. He says he treated similar conditions during the war. Anyway, Mr Tuttle’s son will be joining him to help, so the medical condition won’t matter so much—But Audrey was already gazing over my shoulder. ‘Mrs Twining!’ she shouted. ‘Yoo-hoo! Oh, Mrs. Twining, it’s been months hasn’t it!’
I busied myself in the kitchen while Audrey took it upon herself to greet the guests. Some popped their heads round the back door to say hello, all with the same nods and smiles; the odd insincere offer of help, hopes that the weather would hold and nods of sympathy when I made my apologies for George. Every time I heard new footsteps, I would look up hoping for Ruby and try to stop my smile from fading when I realized that it was not her.
I stood stirring custard over the stove, the tinkle of Audrey’s laughter floating in through the window: ‘All this work, no, I’m sure it was nothing,’ ‘Oh no, I must have the credit for bringing the wine.’ Then whispering loudly, ‘George won’t allow anything French in the house!’
Eventually the conversation grew faint as the guests arranged themselves at the tables and I peered round the door to see paper hats bobbing contentedly as people ate. I saw the vicar’s wife and the Bridgers from next door, the secretary from George’s surgery and her elderly mother in a bath chair. Some people had brought spouses or relatives as there were faces I didn’t recognize and then there was a lady in a pink summer dress whose name I didn’t know, although we always said hello when we saw each other. But there was still no Ruby, nor any of the Browns and I began to worry that they would not come.
‘Emma, Emma, you must stop working and have something to eat.’ Audrey stood on the back step, offering me a plate of my own sandwiches, presented gracefully on her open hand as if she had taken hours preparing them.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Come on, take a break.’ She pulled me down and we perched on the back step to eat.
Ethel was running over the flower bed and I watched helplessly as the pansies got trampled. Her feet were dangerously close to the one blue bloom I had taken so long to cultivate. I opened my mouth and pointed. But Audrey’s eyes were elsewhere.
‘Who’s that filthy scamp Alan is playing with?’
‘Where?’ I said.
‘Over there, the little kid with the grubby hands and the cap over his eyes. He must have just walked in off the street!’
‘Henry?’ I said hopefully. ‘Oh, that’s Henry! He’s, um…’
Then Maud appeared, a white collar sewn on to her old brown dress and a rose poking from a knot of hair wound into a Victorian bun. We stood up from the step as she approached.
‘Sorry we are late, Mrs. Marks,’ she said in voice which sounded like she was doing an impression of the Queen from a wireless broadcast. Then she glanced quickly at Audrey and dropped into a little bob curtsey.
‘Audrey,’ I said quickly, ‘this is Maud Brown, Maud is Henry’s mother.’
Audrey’s mouth dropped open but she recovered quickly, thrusting her hand forward. ‘Delighted, Mrs. Brown, delighted!’
Maud shook her hand warmly then smiled her stubby-toothed grin.
Audrey’s eyes widened. ‘Really, I am delighted to meet you, Mrs Brown,’ she gabbled, ‘but Emma has been so terribly naughty and not mentioned you to me.’
‘Maud is a friend,’ I said quickly. ‘She has one of those lovely old farmhouses out by Evesbridge, right in the countryside.’
Audrey’s stare had sunk to the handshake and I saw that Maud’s fingers were covered in green dye. Audrey glanced at her own hand and, although it was perfectly clean, withdrew it quickly and wiped the palm on her skirt.
‘Oh, it’s only fabric dye,’ I said, embarrassed. That reminds me, Maud, I have a dress I’d like you to dye for me, if you would be so kind. Grass stains, I’m afraid. If I forget to give it to you before you go, it’ll be in the study.’ I turned to Audrey. ‘She’s very good,’ I said. ‘Good enough to make money from her handicrafts, and working from home allows her to be with her family.’
‘Oh, it must be lovely out in Evesbridge this time of year,’ said Audrey absent-mindedly. Then she glanced away quickly: ‘Alan! Alan! Get off the flower bed.’
Alan sat at a table looking confused and Audrey ran off muttering something about the merits of keeping society and charity separate.
‘What a nice lady,’ said Maud and then made some comment about hoping that the weather would hold, which was worded in such a way I guessed that she must have been repeating what she had heard among the other guests. I nodded, looking over her shoulder to where the children were running across the garden, the trample of the boys’ boots and the billow of Ethel’s pinafore.
Then I saw Ruby, alone at a flower bed, bending to grasp a stem. It was a pansy, the blue one, and she seemed drawn to it over all the reds and yellows. She pulled it up at the roots, holding it close to her chest then dropped her chin to smell it, her deep breaths magnified by the rise and fall of her fist. Her nose was buried in the centre of the flower, the petals sucked flat against her nostrils as if she was drinking the scent. I felt my heart thud hard against my chest. The action was somehow familiar but the memory was buried deep in my mind and I could not recall from where it came.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Marks,’ said Maud. ‘She’s been told not to do that.’ Then she cleared her throat with a noise like a motorcar starting in the cold. ‘This damn cough has taken the wind right out of me, could you do me a favour and call the little brat over for me?’
I did so, cupping my hand and shouting across the lawn.
Maud looked at me strangely.
‘What?’ I said. ‘What is it?’
‘What did you shout just then? Who did you call for?’
‘Who?’ I said. ‘Ruby, of course, like you said.’
‘No, no, you called her something else.’
Ruby bounded over breathless. ‘Who’s Violet?’
‘Violet!’ echoed Maud. ‘That was it!’
‘I didn’t say that,’ I said, feeling my blood warm. ‘I didn’t.’
Ruby sniggered.
‘Yes, she’s right, you did!’ said Maud. ‘That is what you said.’ Then she laughed. ‘I’d lay off that fancy wine, Emma, maybe you’ve had a bit much already.’
‘I haven’t,’ I said. ‘I haven’t had any!’
All around me people were smiling, their eyes fixed on me as if they were waiting for me to explain the joke. I opened my mouth but then shut it again when I realized that I had no idea what I would say. I stumbled back inside, mumbling something about checking on the blancmange and ran into the lounge, collapsing into the window seat.
Maud’s head appeared round the door. ‘It’s nothing to worry about, Emma, I’m always getting their names mixed up.’
I smiled weakly.
‘I expect that doctor husband of yours has got you all worried about the smallest slip of the tongue, giving it a fancy name, tongue-tied it is or something.’
‘No, you don’t understand,’ I said but then stopped when I realized that I could not say any more.
‘Maybe you should have some of that wine after all.’ She handed me a glass tumbler, full to the brim.
I felt the rush of alcohol in my head as soon as the wine hit my tongue and remembered that I had hardly touched any of the sandwiches I had spent all morning preparing.
Maud seemed troubled by the silence so did her best to fill it: ‘Once, I got Ruby and the cat mixed up, I was up to my eyes in needlework and calls to Smokey to come and help me. They all heard of course, fell about laughing they did.’
I nodded and tried to smile to show that I was appreciating her efforts but just felt my face crumple.
‘Then once I was in the bedroom with Clarence and, in a moment of passion, I calls out the name of my past fella!’ She shrieked with laughter and jabbed her elbow into my ribs. ‘Well, there was a to-do after that – plates thrown across the kitchen – I had to run and hide in the woods!’
I couldn’t help smile at this and realized for the first time that all her talk of lovers was not intended to shock me but rather was an offer of trust and intimacy, something I had never had with Audrey.
‘There you go!’ she said. ‘A smile at last.’
I took another long sip of wine.
‘A big family is such a drain,’ Maud said softly. ‘All those names to muddle up. You’re probably better off as you are, with no brats at all. Just more time for you and George to be together. I wish I had that.’
‘No you don’t,’ I said firmly.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You are right of course; I don’t want that, not all the time anyway.’ Then she patted my hand. ‘What I mean is, it would be nice, but just sometimes.’ Then she changed the subject: ‘How long have you been with George?’
The Liar Page 8
