Shadows

by Thorne Moore

  ‘Of course!’ I said. ‘This was their change-over weekend. Ronnie’s got his new gang of eager beavers.’

  ‘And they’ve already discovered the pub.’ Al edged the car round an unsteady threesome.

  ‘He tried to put it off limits with the last lot. Fat chance. Looks as if he hasn’t even bothered this time. Poor Ronnie. Still, he’ll be glad to be free of Hannah Quigley.’

  ‘Not the only one.’ Al turned in by the lodge, its new residents happily knocking sand from their shoes on the door step.

  I waved, then shrank down in the passenger seat.

  Hannah Quigley, laden with shopping bags, was plodding up the drive.

  ‘You were saying?’ said Al.

  Hannah turned at the sound of the engine, recognised us, and raised a laden arm to stop us.

  ‘Drive on!’ I squeaked.

  Al’s foot hit the accelerator, till we were safely past.

  We laughed. ‘Oh Lord,’ I said. ‘What’s she still doing here?’

  ‘She’s the Prof’s assistant?’

  ‘No. She’s not even a full-time student. I have it on good authority – well, gossip – that she dropped out of college. She does a job she won’t talk about. What do you think it could be? My money’s on traffic warden.’

  Al shook his head. ‘Whatever she does, she’d better start doing it away from me. If she tells me off again, I may have to teach her a lesson.’

  How primal a lesson? I’d had a frequent desire to throw her bodily out of my way, myself – but I wouldn’t dream of acting on it. Just as well it was me she’d be wanting, not Al. ‘Quick,’ I said, as we pulled into the courtyard. ‘Let me run and hide.’

  I failed. I was still hauling bags from the boot when Hannah came huffing into the yard. Al treacherously grinned and beat a retreat, with Kim’s violin.

  ‘I need to speak to you about the facilities,’ said Hannah, by way of a greeting.

  ‘Hello Hannah. I’m surprised to see you still here.’

  ‘I’m staying the whole summer,’ she announced, as if I should have recognised her preferential status. ‘It’s the bathrooms. I don’t know when you last inspected them, but one of them is disgusting. It hasn’t been cleaned for ages. The sink’s blocked.’

  ‘Sorry, Hannah, but the state of the cottages is the responsibility of the students – although I do expect them to be vacated in a reasonable state. Has anyone mentioned cleaning duties?’

  ‘Well I don’t think that’s good enough. You are responsible for the facilities, aren’t you? What are we paying for?’

  ‘Nobody is paying us anything. Mrs Callister and Dr Bradley have very generously allowed you all to camp on their land and excavate their fields for free. I’m afraid you’ll have to take it up with Ronnie. He’s the one responsible.’

  ‘The professor has quite enough to think about, already.’

  ‘So he’d probably be very grateful if you sorted it out for him.’

  ‘Obviously someone will have to. Not that anyone listens to me.’

  ‘Kate!’ Sylvia was at the kitchen door. ‘You’re home! Had a wonderful time?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ I said, remembering with an effort. The delights of London were on the far side of Hannah Quigley.

  Chapter 15

  My holiday was forgotten. Summer meant an end to relaxation for several weeks. Life outside Llys y Garn became one endless queue, one long struggle to find a parking space, shopping at dawn to avoid families, screaming babies, men in shorts, English voices deriding the lack of okra.

  Within our grounds, I had the Fayre to cope with. Now it was clear that the Hall would be presentable in time, there was no stopping it. Sylvia’s networking conjured up spinners, weavers, leather workers, candle makers and jewellers. I arranged the insurance, found a costume supplier, advertised brazenly and sorted out a licence to serve mead, cider and sweet white wine to accompany Sylvia’s Tudor recipes. I’d persuaded her that our kitchen didn’t meet health and safety requirements, so a nearby restaurant would be producing the food. With Al’s assistance, I found jugglers, puppeteers, a fire-eater, folk dancers, a harpist and assorted musicians. Molly was going to tell fortunes and do things with crystals; I didn’t argue.

  One by one, items on the endless checklist were ticked off. On the day before the Fayre, I was satisfied that everything was under control.

  The postman’s van rolled into the courtyard mid-morning with a bundle of mail, including a postcard from Tamsin.

  ‘Your daughter’s having fun.’ I offered the card to Sylvia, who was busy with floral arrangements. She wiped petals from her hands and read Tamsin’s scant lines as if they were Holy Writ.

  ‘Oh, how wonderful. They’ve gone on to Jason’s place. Isn’t that good? Should I phone her, do you think, just to say—’

  ‘No. She’ll think you don’t trust her. Just concentrate on the flowers.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. I don’t want her to think… What about – no, not the stocks. It’s impossible to find something that goes with marigolds. Oh God, and it’s tomorrow. I’ll never manage to sort this out!’

  Yes she would.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ I said as the phone rang. I took the call in the hall, giving a tourist office directions to our gate, as I sorted the remaining mail. Fliers went in the bin. Michael’s woodworking magazine went on the shelf. That left an invoice and a letter from the local authority. I opened it, reading it on my way to the office.

  A demand for the demolition of the round house, which didn’t have planning permission.

  Just as well I was out of the kitchen, I thought, hot with anger as I shut the door. How petty! I couldn’t discuss this piece of bureaucratic spite now, with Sylvia already so fraught. Get the Fayre out of the way first. I slipped the letter in the desk drawer and returned to the kitchen, all smiles, to help Sylvia with her garlands.

  The costumes arrived and Sylvia’s eyes lit up. Dressing up time! Something subdued in dark green, Anne Boleyn style for me, but a full virgin queen outfit for her. Sylvia was the one more likely to lose her head, but only she could carry off that pneumatic creation without a flicker of embarrassment. There were eight yeomen and damsel outfits for the local teenagers we’d hired to help. The girls at least would love them. We had court gowns in crimson, peacock and amber for Sylvia’s willing friends and half a dozen gents’ outfits for any volunteers.

  The heat had subsided and the sky was cloudy. Rain would be disappointing, but no point worrying about it. I inspected the Great Hall one last time, cluttered with folding tables, piled up in readiness.

  Al had done a superb job. Old beams had been treated, new ones carved, hauled and pegged into position, chimney cleared, stonework cleaned, carving restored. Panelling was as new, the windows a miracle of re-engineered antique glass and lead-work. There was still a vast amount of work to be done in the end rooms and the cellar, but the hall itself was superficially complete.

  A shadow still lurked behind the locked door of the priest hole. The removal of the bones hadn’t cleansed it, as the bog had been cleansed. An agony borne too long, perhaps. It let me feel its cold breath as I stood alone in the hall, but I hoped the noise and bustle of the fair would drown it out.

  I was wearing my Boleyn gown, so I experimented to see if I could negotiate folds of velvet round corners, without bringing stalls down. There was a knack to walking in Tudor garb and I wasn’t sure I’d mastered it. At least I could hide trainers under the long skirt.

  I found an open space, took a wide sweep, in order to disentangle myself, and found myself face to face with my husband.

  Peter applauded. ‘Wow!’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I snapped.

  ‘Sylvia told me to come through. You did say I should come back.’

  ‘You were going to phone first, weren’t you? Then I could have told you not to bother.’

  Peter’s face fell. ‘You never answered.’ Which was true. ‘What’s the matter, Kate? I thought—’


  ‘Peter, I don’t want to talk to you, after what you did. Come on out of here. I want to change.’ I flounced—there was no other option in long velvet—out of the hall and stormed upstairs, to retrieve my jeans and t-shirt. It was impossible to sustain a serious quarrel in Tudor lacing.

  Back in the drawing room, Peter was looking upset. So he should be.

  ‘What’s wrong, Kate? What have I done?’

  ‘You contacted Ronnie. You told him to excavate the bog. Didn’t you!’ I glared at him.

  ‘Well, yes, but I thought—’

  ‘Why? I can’t believe you’d do it. Why?’

  ‘Because you felt something there.’ Peter floundered. ‘They found it, didn’t they? The bog body, just as you said they would.’

  ‘I said no such thing! And I certainly didn’t want you repeating whatever it was I did say.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘They dug up another body. Wasn’t one enough? You seriously think I want corpses dropping on me, every time I feel something?’

  ‘I just wanted to prove you right.’

  ‘I don’t need proof, Peter! I know if I’m right and I’m not interested in convincing anyone else.’

  He groped for some kind of silver lining. ‘At least it must have been extra publicity? Sylvia was so keen about the other one.’

  ‘Bugger the publicity. We had police swarming everywhere. They must have been waiting to pounce on the place. Itching to arrest Al and his crowd for something. And now!’ I stormed into the office and returned with the letter I’d hidden in the desk. ‘Now this!’

  Peter frowned at the paper. ‘Planning permission? Didn’t you get it?’

  ‘For a wattle and daub round house? Somehow I don’t think it would have met building regs, do you? And how could it possibly have mattered? It’s hidden in the woods. It’s not hurting anyone. No one would have known it was there, if the police hadn’t come marching through, because Ronnie found a body, because you just had to tell him to go poking around in that bog. Why did you have to interfere?’

  Peter held out his hands, then sank down on the sofa with a groan. ‘I didn’t mean this to happen.’

  ‘Not just sneakily making trouble for my rough trade?’

  ‘No! Of course not. I didn’t even think about your New Age buddies. All I meant…’ He got up, walked to the window and groaned a second time. He looked desperate. ‘Kate, I know you don’t talk about your feelings because you think people will laugh—’

  ‘Laugh! That’s the least of it.’

  ‘All right. I know what happened when you were a child. You think no one will believe you, so you say nothing. I just wanted to prove I did believe. I wanted to show that people can believe and act on what you say. Sorry. I really didn’t foresee all the ramifications.’

  I almost felt sorry for him. Not good; I needed to be angry with him. ‘You told Ronnie that your wife had odd feelings about the bog?’

  ‘Of course not. I just mentioned it being there. I found an article about bog bodies in Ireland and I floated the suggestion. That’s all.’

  ‘Well it certainly floated. Like a bloody turd that won’t flush away.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  I sighed. How could I be angry and resentful while he wilted like a slapped child who’d only wanted to please mummy.

  ‘Couldn’t we just start again?’ he pleaded.

  ‘Start what again?’

  He hesitated for just a second. ‘This visit. I promise, no matter what you tell me, I will not breathe a word about it to anyone else.’

  I thought of all I might tell – torrid nights in London, naughty interludes in the woods… ‘How’s Gabrielle?’ I asked.

  ‘I promise you, that’s all over. Now.’

  I smiled at that extra word. ‘It’s just an enquiry. I’m not gloating over another woman’s misery.’

  ‘Gabrielle doesn’t do misery. She’s fine. I’m not really likely to run into her any more. She’s found herself a sub-editor position.’

  ‘Well that’s nice. Anyone else on your horizon?’

  ‘No. There’s only one woman I’m interested in, Kate, and she’s a lot closer than the horizon.’

  Confrontation was impossible. I sat down. ‘Since you’re here, we’ll have that soul-searching talk. But first we’ve got to get through Sylvia’s Elizabethan Fayre, God help us. How would you like to be a waiter?’

  ‘I brought a bottle of champagne.’

  ‘You’ll be passing round flagons of mulled ale.’

  ‘Yes, fine, anything.’

  ‘And you’ll dress up. We don’t have enough costumes, but you can just strap on a codpiece.’

  ‘Fine.’ It took a second to sink in. ‘You’re joking! Oh. You are joking.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we do have enough costumes. You will wear one.’

  Peter swallowed. ‘All right.’

  Sylvia appeared, all smiles and hugs, and anxious, encouraging glances at me. I didn’t have time to put her in the picture just then. I had calls to make, tables to arrange, signs to put up, parking to organise, deliveries to unpack—and the planning letter, which was waiting for me.

  I took Peter back to the hall. Tables needed to be unfolded, clicked into upright position and placed where my blueprint dictated.

  ‘How many are there?’ Peter examined pinched fingers after unfolding the fourth.

  ‘Don’t worry, only sixteen. We have to leave room for performances in the middle, and we—’

  Al sauntered in. ‘Hi, Kate.’

  He’d have to learn about Peter’s return sooner or later, but I’d have preferred to choose my own moment. ‘Hello, Al. You remember Peter, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Al easily.

  ‘The family friend,’ added Peter.

  Al grinned. ‘Need a hand?’ He swept up a table and flicked its legs into place with one easy movement. ‘Where do you want it?’

  ‘That corner.’ I pointed. Peter was unfolding the next table, with an air of indifference to mask any clumsiness. Poor Peter. Al could turn his hand to anything, and Peter had created chaos with one Ikea flat pack. But then Peter was an academic economist and financial journalist, not a builder, so the comparison was unfair. Peter was very good with his hands, in some respects. As was…

  ‘Where does this one go?’ asked Peter.

  ‘There.’ I stood and watched. No antagonism. Peter concealed any jealousy – he knew I hated it. But then he’d never had just cause for jealousy before. Al joked, talked casually and, when Peter’s back was turned, gave me a smile of benediction, suggesting a willingness to fall back with good grace, whenever I wanted.

  Good. I certainly didn’t want two grown men spitting and snarling at each other over me. And yet – did Al have to surrender quite so willingly? Surely I was worth one small competitive growl.

  ‘There,’ said Peter, putting the last table in place. ‘How have we done?’

  ‘Just perfect,’ I said dryly.

  Chapter 16

  The day of the Fayre dawned and Sylvia was in a state of dementia from the moment she opened her eyes, but I knew she thrived on hysteria. I was quietly confident that everything would fall into place when the time came.

  Craftsmen arrived to set up their stalls. Besides the sixteen in the hall, eight others, selling herbs, garden pottery and such delights, were set up on the gravel terrace. Michael organised a sensible parking plan. Molly came down with the Annwfyn contingent, to fetch and carry as required.

  She’d kept her word that they would dress for the occasion. Not exactly authentic Tudor, but I expect their hand weaving, tie-dye silks and painted leather wouldn’t have looked any odder in 1588.

  ‘Oh Kate, there’s absolutely no sign of the food!’ Sylvia was in wild panic. ‘I knew we should have done it here. What if it doesn’t come?’

  I looked at my watch. ‘Sylvia, it’s only just gone eight.’

  ‘But if they leave it any longer, we won’t have time—’
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br />   ‘The Fayre opens at eleven. We will have time. Go and check on the jewellers. They’re worried they’re not in the best position. Persuade them that it’s just perfect.’

  ‘But what if the food—’

  ‘If the food arrives, we’ll deal with it.’

  The food did arrive, in ample time, and was duly sorted into bowls and platters. No swan or peacock, but we were having an ox roast in the meadow, well clear of the archery butts.

  The local boys and girls arrived and, as I expected, the girls were keener on the fancy dress than the boys, who found a football and entertained themselves in the car parking zone, to distance themselves nonchalantly from the absurdity of their doublets and breeches.

  The drinks needed organising. Barrels of ale had been delivered to the old boot room, courtesy of the Cemaes Arms, along with crates of wine and cider. The adjoining pantry was being laid out for inauthentic tea and coffee.

  ‘Peter, go and dress yourself in manly array, then come and help me carry this lot over. We’re going to make the punch.’

  He’d been desperately trying to prove himself helpful and considerate – but the costume ‒ rich gold-trimmed plum purple with scarlet hose – had him wilting.

  ‘I feel a complete prat.’ He looked down at himself in disbelief. ‘Are you sure it does up like this?’

  I sailed around him in my green velvet, checking his laces. ‘It’s more the way you’re standing. Try to enjoy it.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Think swash-buckling thoughts.’ I swept a curtsey and waited. ‘You’re supposed to bow.’

  ‘I daren’t. I don’t know what will split.’

  I laughed. ‘Well we’ll soon find out. Can you carry that crate of oranges?’

  ‘Of course. Anything.’

  Poor Peter. I began to wish I hadn’t forced the costume on him. He might settle into it as the day wore on, but for the moment, he was so self-conscious it hurt.