We are seemingly exploring all of it.
It’s a long while before Fiona twists and fights her seat belt to turn towards the back seat. ‘Anything?’ she asks.
Charley shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Do you recognise any of the junctions?’
‘Only the one I told you about at the station. Nothing today.’ She pauses and then adds: ‘It was dark.’
We eventually loop back towards the town, picking up speed on the A-roads until we take another turn onto a single lane road that is banked high on both sides by towering, overgrown hedges. Sergeant Stanley hasn’t bothered to slow this time, accelerating until we reach a rather ominous sign.
Astley Farm Shop.
We bump over a cattle grid, through a pair of thick concrete pillars and then we’re on the farm. Charley’s dress was found in a hedge somewhere close to here.
The farm shop is a small building off to the side of a barn. There’s an A-frame sandwich board at the front advertising pheasant and venison for sale. There are wisps of straw and hay across the ground and then a paved driveway leading to a sprawling house and garden. Beyond that are acres of fields, with trees on the horizon. The unmistakable smell of animal waste hangs in the air.
When the vehicle stops, Fiona clicks off her seat belt and climbs out. Charley is in a state of bewilderment, remaining still in her seat, staring through the window to the farm beyond. Fiona opens the back door and then the prickles begin at the back of my neck.
‘Are you all right?’ Fiona asks.
Charley unclicks her seat belt. ‘I, um…’
‘It’s okay to be apprehensive.’
Fiona helps her down and they round the vehicle until they’re the same side as me and DS Stanley – who finally speaks, acknowledging me with a frosty ‘morning’. The hairs on my neck are standing on end.
It was only a few days ago that Jan Astley was in the papers talking about how he’d found the wedding dress, saying that we ‘always seemed like such a happy couple’. It felt odd when I read that, almost a personal invasion even though it was a positive remark. I don’t know him.
I turn in a circle to take in the farm and the doubts that were beginning to fester suddenly evaporate. This is what makes sense. The farm is massive and there will definitely be some sort of shed somewhere. He’ll have access to vehicles like vans and 4x4s. There are fields and woods over the back. It would be easy for someone to run for help and end up going in one big circle while it was dark.
As for Jan Astley… he knows Charley because he sells his goods to her. Perhaps he’s one of those obsessive types? He found the dress so he could be some sort of white knight, or as some sort of double bluff?
Then there is his interview with the paper – with that creepy line about us. I remember reading somewhere that people who commit these sorts of crimes can often not resist inserting themselves into investigations.
It all makes sense.
Charley grabs my hand and squeezes so hard that I let out a little yelp. She’s taking long, deep breaths as she turns, like I did, to take in the surroundings.
Neither of the officers say anything at first, but they’re both watching her.
‘Do you want to come this way?’
It’s the first time DS Stanley has spoken to Charley. She’s still got a hatchet face and the grey-eyed non-committal stare. She gives nothing away.
She leads us along a rickety stone track, around the side of a barn and then we trace the wooden fencing that surrounds a giant field of dirt.
It doesn’t take long to see where we’re headed.
At the far end of the field, a good five minutes’ walk, is an outhouse that’s too big to be a shed but too small to be a barn. I figure it might be some sort of storage building, with brick walls and corrugated metal for the roof. There’s a heavy metal door hanging open and a line of police tape circling the entire structure.
When we get to the tape, we stop and nobody makes a move to pass to the other side. The building is ten metres or so away, close enough to see what it is but not enough to notice anything specific from the inside. The outside is unremarkable. It’s breeze blocks, not bricks, unpainted except for a large ‘9’ written in red spray paint on the side.
‘Does any of this seem familiar?’ the detective asks.
Charley lets go of my hand and stands, staring. It feels as if everyone is watching her because a small nod will mean so much.
‘No,’ she whispers.
She shakes her head.
‘No. It’s not here.’
The two officers are staring at her and there’s a moment in which everything stops. They were definitely expecting a different answer.
‘Are you absolutely positive?’ DS Stanley asks – even she seems surprised.
‘It’s not here,’ Charley says, before turning to me and taking my hand. ‘I want to go home now.’
Where There’s a Willis There’s a Way
By Samantha Bailey
(Archived 17 years ago)
Annie Willis glows as she offers a hand towards her daughter. It’s a little over a decade since I last visited this house and met Charlotte Willis for the first time. She was only a few weeks old then, unaware of the fame into which she’d been born.
‘It’s all about family for me,’ Annie says.
Charlotte crosses to her mother and smiles, accepting the cuddle and then wriggling out of it in the way embarrassed children do.
‘That’s the thanks I get!’ Annie smiles.
Charlotte turns away from me, utterly angelic with her ringed curls and dinner plate emerald eyes. Her mother asks if she’s finished laying the table and then Charlotte heads into the dining room.
Annie is giving me something of a cooking demonstration before I sit down with her family for a roast with all the trimmings.
‘What do you think is Britain’s most traditional meal?’
Annie’s question has taken me by surprise, largely because it’s usually me doing the asking. I tell her that I’ve always been partial to fish and chips and she laughs as she continues stirring a large tray of gravy.
‘It’s hard to argue with that,’ she replies. ‘But, for me, fish and chips is all about the seaside. It’s Brighton pier, Bournemouth or Weston-Super-Mare. There’s a recipe in my book for fish shop batter – but it only scrapes into my top ten. I wanted to write about meals that were associated with the home, with family. Meals that everyone can eat together.’
I’ve only been in the house for a few minutes but it radiates the kind of homely cooking that takes me back to my parents’ house when I was growing up. I suppose many would say this is precisely the key to Annie Willis’s longevity as a so-called ‘lifestyle guru’ – it’s that ability to make everything feel like it’s fit for a family. She’s the nation’s mother.
‘I’ve got chicken tikka masala in the book’s top five,’ she adds. ‘I know that came out as number one in a public poll for favourite dish the other year – but, for me, nothing beats a good roast.’
As she opens the oven door and sends a gust of roast potatoes and red meat spiralling into the air, it’s hard to disagree. Rather embarrassingly, I find my mouth salivating at the feast to come.
It’s not long before I become one of the privileged few to find out what it’s like to eat a meal cooked by one of the country’s favourite chefs. I’m not a food critic and there’s little point in trying to describe the succulence of the meat, the crispness of the roast potatoes, the way the Yorkshire puddings have raised to perfect domes, the soft, sweet vegetables, or the rich gravy.
All I will say is this: Sorry, Mum. This is the best roast dinner I’ve ever had.
It’s not only the food by itself, of course. Annie Willis has spent more than twenty years on Britain’s screens in some form or another. Husband Paul can add seven more years to that. Generations of Britons have grown up watching their programmes or reading Annie’s books. Annie is now 52, while Paul is 56
. They’re institutions, king and queen in their own right.
And, with that, they are excellent company.
The three of us are joined at the table by daughter Charlotte, now 11; and, rather unexpectedly, eldest daughter Martha, who recently turned 20. Annie assures me that their other child, Liam – who is 22 – would have been present but for work commitments.
It’s reassuring to know that a couple who’ve pitched themselves as parenting role-models still have such a strong relationship with their children.
‘I’m here all the time,’ Martha tells me over dinner. ‘In many ways, I wish I’d never moved out. People don’t tell you how expensive everything is. Cheese, for instance! I couldn’t believe how much cheese costs.’
Apart from expressing her surprise at the cost of dairy products, Martha is otherwise quiet and polite. There’s not much hint of the so-called ‘wild child’ here. She speaks when spoken to and is particularly courteous towards her sister. She says she’s figuring out what she wants to do with her life and it’s hard not to feel an inkling of understanding. After all, her mother’s shadow is a large one out of which to emerge.
Charlotte herself is an absolute delight. Softly spoken with exquisite manners, she’s like a character from a period drama. I ask what she thinks of having such famous parents and she replies that they will always be Mum and Dad to her.
Paul Willis grins that famous grin when I ask if he’s thinking about retirement. He tells me a story of a former colleague who gave up a career in show business to retire to the sun.
‘He was back within three months,’ Paul says. ‘The game is in your blood. It retires you before you retire from it.’
From there, he is a goldmine of stories, reeling off tales of friends in the entertainment business, the likes of which I would love to print but unfortunately cannot.
Charlotte asks for permission to leave the table and then disappears upstairs to play. ‘She’s at that age,’ explains Annie.
After we have finished eating, Martha is asked to clear the table and she dutifully obliges in a way I suspect would have parents all over the land tearing their hair out. ‘Are your children always this helpful around the house?’ I ask.
‘Charlotte is,’ Annie replies. ‘Martha does her share when she’s over. It’s the way they were raised.’ She takes her husband’s hand. ‘I suppose it’s something about our generation. It’s how we were brought up, too – to show respect for your parents. We’ve passed that onto our children.’
I ask about advice for parents whose children perhaps aren’t as cooperative, but Annie exchanges an amused glance with her husband.
‘I’d love to tell you more,’ she says, ‘but it’s in the book… the other book.’
I suppose this is the first moment of awkwardness since I arrived. The first real shill. It’s why I’m here, of course, and yet I won’t pretend it’s not an abrupt end to that thread of conversation.
The Willises have two books coming out in time for Christmas. There is the previously referred to British Classics cookbook from Annie; and then a joint project: Perfect Pearl: 30 Years At The Top, which celebrates their thirtieth wedding anniversary and chronicles their climb to the top of British entertainment.
This is Annie’s twelfth cookbook but, while the first nine topped the charts, it is a different story with her most recent releases. New faces have appeared on Britain’s screens, with fresh-faced and – yes – younger chefs coming up with their own recipes. I ask if this jars.
There is an unquestionable bristling as Annie replies – but at least she’s honest. ‘I suppose it’s the way of the world, but what my husband and I have always managed to do is adapt with the times. People wrote us off ten years ago. Then five years before that – and so on.’
‘Is that why you’ve written the books?’ I press. ‘To prove yourselves?’
It is Paul who answers, but the merriment of his storytelling has been replaced by something more serious. ‘What do we have to prove?’ he asks. ‘I was presenting shows before some of these newcomers were born. I’ve forgotten more than they’ll ever know.’
Annie takes that moment to tap her husband on the hand and there’s an unspoken admonishment.
‘I suppose it would be easy to be bitter,’ Annie says. ‘Of course it would – but we’d rather do our own thing. I still get letters every week from people saying they wish we were back on the television.’
It’s coming up to three years since The Willis Way came to an end. It was a show in which Annie and Paul gave advice, ranging from parenting tips through to general family budgeting. Critics never took to the format, saying it was dated, but that didn’t stop viewers tuning in – especially in those early years. One of the further accusations was that it was exploitative. Daughter Charlotte appeared on the show more than twenty times before her first birthday. By the time she was six, she’d done much of her growing up on screen. Detractors argued she was too young to give consent to that level of intrusion. That led to an appearance on Newsnight, where Paul infamously called the presenter a ‘stupid son of a bitch’. For some, it was the final straw; for others it was a father defending the honour of his daughter.
Either way, eighteen months later and the programme was cancelled.
Since then, appearances in the public eye have seemingly dwindled for the couple, though Annie denies that is the case.
‘We have lots of work,’ she says, ‘it’s just not of the type we were doing before. We open fetes, I do cooking demonstrations at events all around the country, I was at a dozen book festivals last year – and so on. People think that if your faces aren’t on television every day, then you’re done for. We’re dispelling that notion, but, ultimately, people will write what they want.’
I put it to her that her words seem like a direct challenge to me, considering I’ve been invited here specifically to write an article.
‘Sorry,’ she replies. ‘That’s not what I meant at all. You’re here, you’re able to see our family for what it is. I was talking about the people who write things and haven’t even met us.’
That’s a fair point. Earlier this year, Annie was photographed leaving a supermarket wearing no make-up and workout gear that showed what some called a slightly slack stomach. It all seemed so at odds with the toned yoga guru that breakfast viewers were so used to seeing. The headline – ‘Wide-Load Willis’ was unquestionably mean-spirited and raises broader issues about how people in the public eye are treated, women especially. Questions were even asked in Parliament.
‘Of course it hurt,’ Annie says, although I have the sense she is carefully watching her words. In all honesty, I don’t blame her. ‘It sends out the message that you can’t leave the house unless you’ve spent hours getting ready. It goes beyond me.’
I ask if it has harmed her prospects of finding another job on television.
‘Perhaps,’ she concedes, ‘but I suppose that’s why we’ve written the books. It doesn’t have to be about being on screen every day. There are still people out there who’d like to hear from us.’
Martha takes that moment to drift into the living room, telling everyone that she’s washed up. She says she’s going to go upstairs to check on her sister and there’s unquestioning tenderness between the siblings.
I ask what’s on the horizon and the couple exchange another of their silent glances. It really does feel as if they can read one another’s minds.
‘We keep moving onwards,’ Paul says.
‘What does that mean?’ I reply.
‘Who knows – but someone told me twenty-seven years ago that I’d never make it as an entertainer. He said I wasn’t natural enough, didn’t have good enough hair. Can you believe that? Hair!’ He shrugs. ‘We’ve proven people wrong once, so now we’ll do it again.’
* * *
British Classics by Annie Willis and Perfect Pearl: 30 Years At The Top by Paul and Annie Willis will both be released in October.
Forty
&n
bsp; Now
Seth
The police drop us back at the house and say they will be in contact if they need anything. I can’t stop myself from looking online, where rumours are rampant that Jan Astley has been arrested. I have no idea what that means, whether it was a hunch or some sort of tip; whether Charley denying she knows the site means he’ll be released. It feels like quite the mess.
Perhaps the police wanted it to seem like they were doing something?
After we get back to the house, Charley is quieter than ever. She says she has a headache and returns to bed. When I check on her half an hour later, she’s either sleeping or she’s really good at faking it.
I don’t know why I’m even having those thoughts. Of course she’s sleeping. Why wouldn’t she be?
Emily calls and we talk about Mum for a while. She’s stuck in one of her cycles of thinking she has jobs to do. She wants to clean the house she doesn’t live in, cook meals for children who are no longer children and go to shops that went out of business more than a decade ago. I’ve not seen her in six days, a fact of which Emily reminds me by spelling out precisely how the past few days have gone. When we put Mum in the nursing home, we agreed we’d share the job of visiting her day-to-day. It’s not been very joint in the past week.
One more person I’ve disappointed, I suppose. Or two – Emily and Mum.
I spend a while in the living room doing little but sitting. I dread to think what the news is reporting, having peeked at what was online. I don’t know how to talk to my wife, or whether I’m making things worse. Fiona said there was someone I could talk to and I find myself hunting through pockets looking for the leaflet.
Wherever it is, I can’t find it.
Raj, my best man at the now tainted wedding, is the person who finally comes through with a short but simple text: ‘Can we meet?’
The Wife’s Secret: A gripping psychological thriller with a heart-stopping twist Page 22
