Winter Wood

by Steve Augarde

Midge took a sip of her coffee. She half wished that she could talk to Katie about what was going on – why she was searching for Celandine, and how she had become involved with the Various all over again. It would be good to tell someone. And yet she knew that she never could.

  ‘No, I’m not up to anything. I’m just interested in Aunt Celandine, that’s all.’

  Yet now that Katie had acknowledged what lay between them, Midge couldn’t resist going a step further.

  ‘It’s funny how we never talk about it,’ she said.

  ‘Not funny at all, really,’ said Katie. ‘We only talk about what we think about. And I never think about it. It’s easy. I just make myself not think about it and then it doesn’t bother me. You ought to do the same.’ She sounded tetchy.

  ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right. Does George ever talk to you about it?’

  Katie shook her head. ‘Never mentions it. Oh! That Billy makes me so mad. He needs to get his act together, or they’ll be splitting up again – you just wait and see.’

  ‘What?’ said Midge. But then she realized that Katie was lost in what was happening on the screen. The goings on in Albert Square were apparently far more real to her than her encounter with the Various.

  Midge slipped the rubber band off her envelope and drew out the contents. There was a long slim book of some sort, with a grey marbled cover, and a few folded pieces of paper. The pieces of paper were mostly bills, by the look of them, or receipts: Lopen Feed Mills, Allen Bros., Blacksmith and Farriers . . .

  J. L. Bright and Partners, Solicitors . . . veterinary bills . . .

  It was strange to see everything written out in such neat sloping handwriting, the sums and figures all in the old money that they’d used before decimal came in. To treating a sick horse (Beamer) . . . £1 . . . 4s . . . 4d. To repairing an iron gate and making good . . . £0 . . . 3s . . . 9d.

  Quite interesting, but not likely to get her anywhere. Midge opened the book and saw that it was a farm ledger. More dry facts and figures: so many calves born, so many loads of hay sold. But again everything was beautifully written out in a rich black ink, some of the words painstakingly underlined in red. Copperplate handwriting – was that what they called it? . . . Income for the month of August . . . Expenditure for the month of September . . . Mount Pleasant School for Girls . . . Fees: 2 guineas.

  What was a guinea? Midge paused, holding the corner of the page between finger and thumb. And what was this ‘Mount Pleasant School for Girls’?

  She sat there looking at the words for a while, then glanced up at the top of the page, to where the date was written out: September 1914.

  September 1914. Would Celandine have been a schoolgirl then? It seemed about right. So maybe this could be where she went to school: Mount Pleasant School for Girls . . .

  ‘Do what, Peggy? You’re ’avin’ a larf, incha . . .?’ The telly blared on. Katie tucked her legs up onto the sofa, and Midge shifted along a bit.

  Perhaps this school still existed. And if it did, then perhaps they’d have kept a record of what had happened to their former pupils. Schools sometimes did, and particularly where pupils had gone on to do things that would make the school proud of them, as Celandine surely had. Also . . . yes, also . . . there was the possibility of reunions, pupils keeping in touch with one another – an Old Girls Association, maybe. She could try one of those ‘friends united’ sites! Now that would definitely be worth a stab.

  Midge closed the little ledger, feeling better now that she had a new plan to work on. There was another folded piece of paper protruding from the book, inserted between the last page and the back cover. Midge began to tuck it in, but then changed her mind and pulled it out to take a look.

  It turned out to be two pieces of paper – one inside the other – both headed ‘Mount Pleasant School for Girls’. But how amazing . . .

  The first was a bill, addressed to Mr E. V. Howard:

  To repairing wilful damage to school property, and redecorating:

  £14 . . . 8s . . . 0d.

  To full recompense for wilful damage to pupils’ property:

  £31 . . . 11s . . . 10d

  Total: . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  £45 . . . 19s . . . 10d

  Please pay this account promptly.

  R. D. Ainsworth (Bursar)

  Wilful damage? This didn’t look good. Midge moved on to the second sheet of paper – a handwritten letter.

  Dear Mr Howard,

  Please find the enclosed bill for damage and expenses. As I have said in my previous correspondence, your daughter’s disgusting and abominable behaviour has been quite inexcusable. If I hadn’t the school’s reputation to consider, I should have certainly pressed for serious charges in this matter. Indeed I have only been able to persuade others not to insist upon my doing so by pointing out that it would not benefit their own daughters to have the school’s reputation for high standards compromised. I have also asked them to take into consideration the recent loss of your son to the War, and that you should thus be spared the embarrassment of a legal suit at such a time.

  Naturally there can be no question of Miss Howard returning to continue her education at Mount Pleasant.

  I trust that you will settle the enclosed account immediately in order that the school can reimburse those parents affected for the considerable trouble and costs that they have incurred.

  Yours sincerely,

  A. Craven (Headmistress)

  Wow! Midge rested the letter in her lap and gawped at the TV screen. What on earth could Celandine have done that was so terrible?

  ‘Find anything?’ Katie yawned as the programme came to an end and the credits began to roll.

  Midge handed the letter over. ‘Yeah. This.’

  Katie yawned again and looked at the letter – then sat up straight as she began to read through it.

  ‘Yipes! I can’t believe this! Sounds like she was a right little madam. Wonder what she did, though? “Disgusting and abominable behaviour . . .” Maybe she was round the back of the gym with one of the gardeners.’

  ‘No. Read it again. It’s actual damage. There’s a bill here – forty-five quid.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem that much.’ Katie looked at the bill.

  ‘Yeah, but that would probably have been like hundreds in today’s money.’

  ‘Suppose so. Well, well, well. Great-aunt Celandine – nothing but a hooligan! A vandal! What are you going to do now?’

  ‘Well, I was going to see whether the school still existed, and whether there was like a reunion site or something for old pupils. Doesn’t seem much point now, though.’

  ‘Noooo. Sounds like she might have blotted the jolly old copybook. Eh what, me old sport, me old spiffy?’

  ‘Ha! Just a bit.’

  Yes, and that was a blow. It seemed unlikely that Celandine would ever have been a welcome member of any kind of Old Girl’s club after what she’d done . . . whatever it was that she had done.

  Midge picked up the ledger and the bits of paper, and put them back in the envelope. So. That was that.

  Saturday rolled round again, and Midge was getting nowhere. She’d gone on a computer search, just for the lack of any better idea, typed in ‘Mount Pleasant School for Girls’, and found to her astonishment that there were loads of them. Or at least there were loads of schools with Mount Pleasant in the name, but they were all much too far away to have been possible candidates: Switzerland, Auckland, Delaware . . . even the one in Hampshire would surely have been a non-starter.

  The local paper had responded to her email kindly, but regretfully, saying that they had nothing in their files on the Tone Valley Clinic that she hadn’t already seen. It was all beginning to get her down a bit. And now she had to waste her whole Saturday afternoon doing something she did not want to do: meeting Barry.

  They were going on a shopping trip to this Almbury Mills place, to look at shrubs, of all things. Barry knew a lot about shrubs, apparently, and so he would be coming a
long to advise her mum and Uncle Brian on what to choose. Also it would be a chance to say hallo, and get to know one another. Great.

  Normally she could have just said no to such a boring excursion, and stayed at home, but of course that wasn’t an option in this case. Because of Barry.

  ‘Come on, Midge,’ her mum said. ‘It’ll be an afternoon out, and Barry’s really looking forward to meeting you. And Brian, of course. Play nice, eh? I think he’s a bit nervous about it, actually.’

  Yeah, so he should be, thought Midge. But she just sighed and said, ‘OK.’

  Well, he had a pretty flash car, that was something. She heard the toot of the horn and looked out of the sitting-room window to see a new silver Saab pulling up in front of the house. It looked very out of place, and vulnerable, as it nosed between the diggers and the piles of rubble that cluttered the yard. Cool, though.

  Midge watched as the car door opened and a man got out. Blimey. He was ancient. Or maybe it was just the white hair. Not very tall, either.

  She stayed where she was as Barry disappeared from view, heard the knock on the front door and her mother’s voice in the hallway.

  ‘Midge, are you ready? Come on!’

  Oh well, there was nothing else for it. Midge arrived in the hallway, just as Uncle Brian came out of his kitchen door, and then there was the whole embarrassing confusion of who was to be introduced first.

  ‘Barry, this is Brian . . .’

  ‘Oh, hi . . .’

  ‘And Margaret – Midge. This is Barry . . . Barry – Midge, Brian . . .’

  ‘Hiya.’ Did she shake hands? Yes, apparently she did. A quick impression of pale fingers, a very light squeeze of her hand. Then the inevitable awkwardness of everybody trying to speak at once.

  ‘Found us OK, then?’

  ‘Yes. No trouble, thanks, Brian. Well . . . ap-part from . . .’ (Was that a stammer? How nervous could he be?)

  ‘Don’t tell me – the Ilminster roundabout . . .’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘What, no SatNav? I should have thought you could go to sleep in that thing and still arrive safe and sound . . .’ Her mum chipping in.

  ‘Yes, there’s just one exit too many, isn’t there . . .’ Brian again.

  And then they were all out on the front path, and Barry looked at Uncle Brian and said, ‘I have to say, I c-can’t see much of a family resemblance.’

  ‘Haha!’ Uncle Brian laughed. ‘No. I think you’ve probably made the right choice when it comes to looks.’

  ‘Well, I sh-shan’t argue with you there.’

  He did have a bit of a stammer, then. Wonderful. What a catch. Midge trailed behind the grown-ups, and they all got into Barry’s car – Midge and Uncle Brian in the back, of course, and her mum and Barry in the front. The happy couple. Still, there hadn’t been any gruesome kissing, so that was a plus. And it was a very nice car. Like an aeroplane in there, with all its lights and dials.

  She was glad that her Uncle Brian was coming along. He broke the tension somehow, talking easily to Barry about the plans for Mill Farm, how the old cider barn was to become a teashop, with a licensed bar, and how the former stables were being turned into holiday apartments for those who were interested in coming to see the wetlands. He made everybody laugh by saying, ‘And of course, I shall be able to laze around swigging claret all day, and getting paid for my hobby.’

  At one point Uncle Brian reached across and gave her hand an understanding little squeeze. He was a pretty cool guy, thought Midge. Barry, she wasn’t so sure about. She studied the back of his head, occasionally caught his eye in the rear-view mirror and quickly looked away. She knew absolutely nothing about him. What was he – some kind of salesman? She and her mum had never had that promised conversation. There never seemed to be any time to talk.

  ‘So how’s the music business then, Barry?’ Uncle Brian apparently knew more than she did.

  ‘Not bad. Plenty of work, at any rate. Get a bit f-fed up with the touring sometimes. And the egos.’

  ‘Yes, Chris used to be the same, I think.’

  ‘Mm.’ Her mum made a little sound of agreement but said no more. Still a touchy subject, maybe. Or maybe she regretted giving her music up to become a businesswoman.

  Nobody spoke for a while, and Midge stared out of the window as the miles passed. So Barry was a musician. Another orchestral player probably – although hadn’t her mum said something about all this months ago, hinted then that she was seeing someone, but not someone from the orchestra? Yes. She’d forgotten all about that. Maybe this was serious, then, if it had been going on since the middle of last year.

  The town, when they finally got there, was packed with shoppers. It took ages to get through, and Midge felt more resentful than ever that she’d been dragged along on this trip. What a waste of a Saturday afternoon. The traffic crawled along nose to tail, and even when they’d got past the town centre and out onto the road to North Perrott, it didn’t ease up. Everybody seemed to be on their way to Almbury Mills.

  ‘Not far now,’ said Uncle Brian. ‘It’s just at the top of this hill, on the left.’

  They’d stopped yet again, caught in the long queue of cars that would be turning off to the garden centre. Midge leaned her elbow against the car window, her chin resting on her hand. She found herself staring up at a big old building, set back on a hill, with shrubs and spiky palm trees and neat lawns that swept down towards the road. That couldn’t be anything to do with the garden centre, could it? No, far too old. The building was very imposing, with high windows, and a central clock tower. 3.20. Could that be right? By the time they arrived it would be time to go home again.

  ‘See, they look nice,’ said her mum, looking up at the place, ‘those shrubs there. Don’t they have yellow flowers later on? What are they again?’

  Barry glanced across. ‘Forsythia. They’re OK. Bit b-boring.’

  But then the traffic began to move again and Barry had to look away. They picked up speed, and as they passed the driveway to the building Midge caught a quick glimpse of a sign – ‘Mount Pleasant Residential Apartments’. Large black letters on a white background, and then in smaller letters underneath: ‘A caring home.’

  Midge spun round in her seat and tried to look out of the rear window, but the sign was no longer visible. She faced front again, and now the car was pulling into the broad entranceway to Almbury Mills, following the stream of traffic heading for the car parks.

  Midge blinked as she tried to remember the details of what she’d seen. Mount Pleasant Residential Apartments . . .

  Could it be possible? Might that big old building have once been a school?

  ‘There!’ said Mum. ‘Just over there, Barry – a space.’

  ‘Yes!’ Barry swung the car into the vacant space, and turned off the engine. ‘Brilliant. The p-parking fairy is smiling upon us.’

  As they entered the crowded and echoey complex – all glass domed roof and potted palms – Midge felt Mum’s arm go round her shoulder.

  ‘You’re very quiet, love. Everything all right?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Can I have a drink, though?’

  ‘Um . . . well, shall we go and have a look at some plants first? It’s taken a bit longer to get here than we expected, and we do need to get a few things sorted out. We can stop for tea in an hour or so.’

  ‘Tell, you what, Chris,’ said Uncle Brian. ‘Why don’t you and Barry go on ahead and make a start, and I’ll get Midge a lemonade or something? To be honest, I’m going to be about as much use in the shrub department as a duck in a desert, and I could do with a cup of tea myself. Also, I wouldn’t mind a nose around the bookshops. We can catch up with you later.’

  ‘Well, you lazy old b . . .’ Mum’s voice was loudly indignant, but Midge could see that she wasn’t seriously angry. ‘So we do all the hard work, while you loll around the cafés scoffing buns!’

  ‘Ooh – hadn’t thought of that,’ said Uncle Brian. ‘But now that you mention it,
I could go a bun. What do you think, Midge?’

  ‘Well I might be able to force myself.’ Midge looked up at Barry, and saw that he was laughing.

  ‘Come on, Chris,’ said Barry. ‘It doesn’t have to be a p-penance. I don’t mind.’

  ‘Sure? Oh . . . all right, then. We’ve all got mobiles, I suppose. Let’s aim to meet up at five, then, if we don’t bump into each other before then. See you later.’

  ‘Ruddy plants,’ said Uncle Brian, once Mum and Barry were out of earshot. ‘Don’t see why we need ’em in the first place. I’d be happy to tarmac the lot, frankly, but there you go. I suppose that’s the difference between having good taste and not. Come on, let’s see if we can bag one of those tables.’

  They sat at one of the little café tables that spread out into the busy main concourse, and ordered up drinks and a couple of cakes.

  Uncle Brian said, ‘What do you make of Barry, then?’

  ‘Um . . . don’t know, really. Seems OK, I suppose. A musician, is he?’

  ‘Yes. Quite well known in the business, I think. He puts backing bands together for when big American artists come over here to tour. It’s cheaper than bringing their own musicians across if they can use local guys, so I gather they call on Barry to pull in the right people for the job. How’s your cake?’

  ‘Good.’ Midge took a bite of her chocolate muffin and leaned over her plate to catch the crumbs. She looked up as she did so, and saw someone coming towards their table – a tubby man in a waxed jacket, creeping up behind Uncle Brian. The man winked at her, raised his hand and then slapped it down onto Uncle Brian’s shoulder, as though he were a policeman nabbing a convict.

  ‘Howard, you old layabout! What the devil are you doing here?’

  Uncle Brian spluttered into his teacup, and looked round at his attacker.

  ‘Clifton, you appalling specimen! Well, I was enjoying a peaceful spot of tea with my favourite niece, but I can see that it’s goodbye to all that. Come and join us, why don’t you.’

  They spoke to each other in a jokey old-fashioned language, as though they had once been fighter pilots together, or something. Probably just schoolfriends, thought Midge.