by Pam Weaver
‘That’s a shame,’ said Marilyn. ‘I’m sorry to have dragged you up here.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Shirley. ‘It was worth a try, and it was a nice ride.’
‘There are other cottages around here,’ said Marilyn. ‘A lot of them belong to the Castle Goring estate and can only be rented, but some belonged to woodlanders. They would have lived in them when they worked the copses making hurdles.’
‘Hurdles?’ said Shirley.
‘Fences,’ said Marilyn, ‘for sheep pens and stuff. Did you know there’s a copse called Olliver’s Copse?’
‘Really?’ said Shirley. ‘Does it belong to the farm?’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Marilyn. ‘The spelling is different. It’s got two “l”s. It’s the same as the spelling on the miller’s tomb on Highdown Hill. Tell you what, let’s bike back that way and I’ll show you.’
Olliver’s Copse was close to Swillage Lane. Even though it was overgrown and unmanaged, Shirley could see at once that it had potential. This was a sheep-farming area. The Findon Sheep Fair, held in September, was famous, and Findon was less than three miles away. This year, because of the war, the fair itself was to be moved to West Grinstead, presumably to be well away from the Battle of Britain, but why on earth were shepherds buying their pens from elsewhere when, with a little work, they could have local hazel hurdles? She sighed. If only they had a few years instead of a few weeks left at the farm, she could perhaps approach the manager of the Castle Goring estate and revive some of the old skills.
The two girls found a shady tree and parked their bicycles. Shirley took out a blanket she’d put in the clip over the back wheel. They spread it out and sat down to enjoy their sandwiches and an apple. The views were fantastic. It was only now that Shirley appreciated that the village of Angmering itself was in a dip.
‘This is the life,’ sighed Marilyn, leaning back against the tree. ‘Are you still seeing Clay?’
Shirley shook her head.
‘Oh dear,’ said Marilyn. ‘What happened?’
Shirley shrugged. ‘He’s a nice boy, but I’m only sixteen. I don’t want to be tied down.’
‘Have a bit of fun first, eh?’ Marilyn teased.
‘Something like that,’ said Shirley, although she had no intention of having fun with Clay. They drowsed in the warm sunshine. ‘I want to show you something,’ she said, taking out the newspaper cutting she’d found stuffed down the bedpost. ‘It’s about Stephen and Gilbert Oliver. Did you know Mr Oliver had a twin?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ said Marilyn. She read the cutting quickly. ‘Well, I’m blowed.’ As she handed it back, she noted the expression on Shirley’s face. ‘You think there’s something more to it, don’t you?’
‘Let’s go over what we know,’ said Shirley, sitting up and hugging her knees. ‘Elizabeth was your friend. You and Reuben were going away with her, but then someone kills Reuben and puts his body in the culvert.’
Marilyn nodded uncertainly. ‘Yes.’
‘Reuben, a man whom everyone likes, a man who has no enemies,’ Shirley continued. ‘And at the same time, Elizabeth, another popular person, falls into Patching Pond and despite a valiant attempt by her husband, she drowns.’
‘I see what you’re driving at,’ said Marilyn as she sat up, ‘but it’s a coincidence. Gilbert didn’t know anything about us going to Cape Town.’ She paused. ‘Are you thinking that the two are connected?’
‘I think you do too, if you’re honest,’ said Shirley.
Marilyn looked away. ‘You’re right. I just didn’t want to put it into words.’ She sighed. ‘Once you voice it, there’s no going back.’
Shirley leaned forward. ‘But now that you know Reuben didn’t run off and leave you, don’t you want to find out what happened to him?’
‘The police are convinced that he was set upon by some roaming gypsies,’ said Marilyn.
‘How very convenient,’ said Shirley sarcastically. She held up the cutting. ‘I have read and reread this cutting and some things just don’t add up. What was Stephen doing in the middle of a herd of cows? You watch Vince and Seth when they’re herding. They always stay on the outside of moving cattle.’
‘He was a novice farmer.’
‘One who had at least a year’s experience,’ Shirley pointed out. ‘He would have known how to stay safe by that time.’
Marilyn’s eyes grew wide. ‘If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, we’re talking about a serial killer.’
Shirley nodded.
‘But this is Angmering,’ cried Marilyn. ‘A sleepy Sussex village where nothing ever happens. Murders happen in London and Manchester.’
‘We’re the same people wherever we live,’ said Shirley sagely.
Marilyn smiled reluctantly. ‘For one so young, you’re a wise old bird, Shirley Jenkins.’
‘And another thing,’ Shirley went on. ‘Why was Elizabeth at the pond that day? Don’t give me all that stuff about holly trees and Christmas wreaths. I walked right round that pond and I couldn’t find a single holly tree.’
Marilyn’s eyes grew wide.
Shirley held out the cutting again. ‘What do you make of that?’ She was pointing to the pencilled note at the side.
‘I didn’t notice that,’ cried Marilyn.
‘It took me a while to see it,’ said Shirley. ‘Peach and lemon – they hardly go together.
‘There’s a solicitor called Mr Lemon in Worthing,’ said Marilyn. ‘Yes, that’s it! He’s in Liverpool Gardens. That’s where all the solicitors are.’
‘So that blob there is the word “Gardens”? It’s not long enough.’
‘You can write it “Gns”,’ said Marilyn.
Shirley felt a tingle of excitement. ‘What do you make of the numbers? 573A64.’
‘They could be the number of the street,’ Marilyn mused. ‘No, that’s ridiculous. Maybe a file number?’
They looked at each other, startled. ‘Oh my goodness,’ cried Shirley. ‘That’s it. It’s a file number. Elizabeth wanted whoever found this cutting to take it to Peach & Lemon in Liverpool Gardens.’
Marilyn frowned. ‘What for?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Shirley, ‘but you can bet your life I mean to find out.’
This stone had to be really special. Florrie and Len were walking on the seashore near Ferring, one of the few remaining parts of the beach not covered in barbed wire. The day was overcast, but there was a gentle breeze coming off the sea. Two dogs were running ahead of them, one barking at nothing at all and the other, a much older animal, loping along behind him. The owner kept to the grass verge and hardly noticed Florrie and Len passing by.
The tide was out and their feet pressed water from the sand as they walked. Florrie turned to watch the water bleed back into their footprints, leaving a shallow imprint, a record of where they had been. It looked solid enough, but of course the little marks would be washed away once the tide came back in and there would be no sign that they had ever been here.
She recalled part of a poem she’d once read. But all shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well . . . Comforting words, but she couldn’t remember where she’d seen them. Florrie was in maudlin mood, which was why she was looking for a memory stone.
She hadn’t collected one for years. She’d started collecting them when she was young, and up until the time Sid left, she had done it for every landmark occasion in her life. She’d kept them in her drawer in her bedroom. She hadn’t opened that drawer for at least a year, but they were still there. One for the day she’d met Sid, one for the day she married, a few others scattered in between and another for the day Shirley and Tom were born. After that, she hadn’t wanted to keep her memories, but she did today.
‘What about that one?’ said Len, pointing to a distinctive-looking stone at his feet.
Florrie shook her head. It was nice but not quite right for the occasion. ‘It’s too dark,’ she said as sh
e slipped her arm through his.
Last night had been wonderful. The hotel, just across the road from the beach at East Worthing, had been warm and inviting. They had dumped their things and then Len had taken her to a swanky hotel for dinner. She dreaded to think how much their meal cost, but it was delicious. Just before they’d gone in, he’d sprinkled a little confetti over them. Of course, as Len had intended, the waiter spotted it, and much to Florrie’s embarrassment, the manager had offered them a free drink to celebrate.
‘You are naughty,’ she’d whispered when he’d gone.
‘Aren’t I just,’ he grinned as he leaned back in the chair.
They’d strolled back in the half-light. There were no street lights, of course, but it wasn’t pitch-black or anything like it. Where it was difficult to see the pavement they were guided by the white bands painted onto the bottom of the trees and lampposts to keep them safe from the edge of the road, and there were hardly any cars, anyway.
She’d felt quite shy when they were alone, but Len was a considerate lover. She could tell he was holding back until she was ready, and when he finally entered her, she felt as if her whole being melted into his. The first time was over quickly, but there were two other occasions before they got up for breakfast, each one more delicious than the last.
After a breakfast fit for a king, they walked into town. It was a pretty place, perhaps a little old-fashioned, but Florrie liked it. They came down Warwick Street and into the main shopping area. Of course, the preparations for invasion had scarred the town hall, which had a large bunker right in front of it and an above-ground air-raid shelter in front of that. Even the kerb stones had been painted black and white to aid motorists and pedestrians in the blackout, but Florrie and Len did their best to ignore the reminders of war as they held hands and peered in shop windows.
‘I want to buy you a dress,’ he said suddenly.
‘I’m not sure if I have enough coupons,’ she said, laughing.
‘Then use mine,’ he said, dragging her into Hubbard’s at the end of South Street.
The lady in the dress department was quite snooty until Len told her they were on their honeymoon and then she couldn’t have been more helpful. In the end, Florrie chose a delightful print button-through short-sleeved dress with a white collar and cuffs. At Len’s insistence, the woman bagged up Florrie’s old dress and she wore the new one right away. It was beautiful, and best of all, it fitted properly.
They couldn’t walk along the seafront in town. Large concrete anti-tank blocks, each about six feet square, had been put up all along the shoreline. They couldn’t go onto the pier either. A huge hole had been blown in the middle to stop enemy ships unloading supplies at the pier-head. It didn’t matter. Len and Florrie were content to keep walking.
This was the first time since they’d known each other that Florrie and Len were on their own. When they’d talked after making love last night, she’d finally understood how much he’d longed to tell her that he loved her. At first, she’d wept for the wasted years, but he’d held her close and told her they mustn’t think of that. ‘We still have the future,’ he’d told her. But what future did they have? She stared out to sea and the distant horizon. What if Hitler really did come over the Channel? What if, like Churchill said, they’d end up having to fight them on the beaches and the streets and the hills? What if Len got killed? She gave a little shudder.
‘Cold?’ he asked anxiously.
She linked her arm through his and moved closer. He bent down and kissed her tenderly.
The beach was deserted, but how could she enjoy all this peace and tranquillity when her brain was going nineteen to the dozen? If she wasn’t worrying about the future, she was letting her imagination run riot and fretting about what might have been. She brushed a renegade tear from her eye. ‘Gosh, that wind is keen,’ she said as she noticed Len’s anxious look.
They reached the pebbles near the cafe and Len sat down. Florrie flopped close beside him, longing for the warmth of his body.
‘When we’re old and grey,’ Len said, putting his arm round her shoulders, ‘I’ll bring you back here and we’ll remember this day.’
Florrie scanned the beach and spotted a dusty-pink stone. What an unusual colour. Every other stone was speckled or grey or black or chalk-white. It felt special. It felt like a memory stone. She picked it up and showed Len.
‘Pretty,’ he said, and then he gave her a long, hungry look. Without a word, they both got to their feet.
On the long walk back to the hotel, their urgency grew. Back in their room, Len locked the door and Florrie pulled the curtain before they lay down on the bed. And later, as he ran his finger down her naked thigh, Florrie knew they wouldn’t be going out again today.
CHAPTER 30
It seemed that Mother Nature had been particularly kind this year. Even the hedgerows were bursting with fruit. Towards evening was the best time to go blackberrying, so armed with a walking stick and an old umbrella, Florrie and Shirley set out. Granny Roberts was in her kitchen, busy bottling jams and chutney and putting fruit into Kilner jars ready for the winter, so they worked their way along the hedgerows towards the woods.
The countryside wasn’t without its hazards. The Canadian soldiers had been digging anti-tank trenches, and several fields had big skull-and-crossbones signs in both English and German warning of minefields. There were no mines, of course. It was merely a ruse designed to make life as difficult as possible for any invader.
Just back from her two-day honeymoon, Florrie had a lot of catching-up to do. ‘So what exactly is Mr Oliver like?’ she asked.
Her question took Shirley by surprise, but at the same time she was glad to be given the opportunity to get everything out in the open. She decided not to hold back anything of real importance, and Florrie did her best to listen without interruption, although several times surprise got the better of her.
‘You don’t mean he made both you and Tom sleep in that tiny space beyond the scullery? Oh, Shirley, that’s awful. If only I had known.’
‘It looks a lot better now,’ said Shirley. ‘We did it up when Vince came. When Tom and I were in there, the door didn’t fit and half a gale blew under it.’
Florrie was shocked.
‘It’s all right, Mum,’ said Shirley with a chuckle. ‘We survived, and besides, what could you have done about it?’
‘Couldn’t they have sent you somewhere else?’
Shirley pulled a face. ‘Nobody else wanted us.’
Florrie was stricken.
‘It turned out all right in the end,’ said Shirley reassuringly, ‘and Tom loves being a farmer. Vince and Seth only have to show him what to do once and he takes to it straight away.’
‘Do you really think he’s happy?’
‘I know he is, Mum,’ said Shirley. ‘You remember how, when he was worried about something, he always wanted a story? Well, he hasn’t asked me for one in months.’
‘He certainly looks happy and settled, and yet you’re all planning to leave.’
‘Mum, there’s something about Mr Oliver I need to tell you.’
‘Ooh, mind that bramble,’ said Florrie. ‘You’re all caught up in it. Let me help you or you’ll tear your frock.’
‘You know I told you Mr Oliver is in jail,’ Shirley said as they extricated the skirt of her dress from the bush. ‘Well, Janet’s marriage isn’t a proper marriage.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ said Florrie, echoes of her own marriage immediately coming to mind.
‘Janet hates him,’ said Shirley. ‘She only married him to get herself out of a hole. You see, she was having a baby and her stepmother threw her out. Marriage to Mr Oliver gave her a roof over her head, but she regrets it now. Oh, look – there’s loads on that branch up there. Can you reach them?’
‘She seems like a nice girl,’ said Florrie as she used the umbrella handle to pull the branch down while Shirley picked the fruit.
‘She is, Mum,’ sa
id Shirley, ‘and she deserves better. He’s horrible to her.’ She toyed briefly with telling her mother about her suspicion that he’d meant to do Lucy harm that day on the landing, but in the end decided not to. By the time Mr Oliver got back home, they’d all be long gone, and in the meantime, if she knew, her mother would only worry. And as for the rest – Elizabeth’s death and the discovery of Reuben’s body – she kept that to herself for now. She had an appointment with Mr Peach in Liverpool Gardens for the following Wednesday at 2 p.m. Whatever Elizabeth had left in his keeping might throw a different light on the matter.
Her mother said nothing, so Shirley didn’t pursue it. ‘How’s the sale of the shop going?’ she said, changing the subject.
‘Slowly, but it seems the right thing to do,’ said her mother. ‘You and Tom have taken to country living, and the fresh air is so much better for my health too. I really enjoyed being in the glasshouse at the convalescent home, so it seemed like a logical step.’ She didn’t mention that here in Sussex she could start afresh much more easily with a different name without people questioning her. As far as the folks around here knew, she really was Mrs Greene. There was a slight pause; then Florrie said, ‘Now that you’ve told me about Janet, I understand why you think it’s a bad idea to stay at the farm.’
‘Is Uncle Len happy about leaving London?’
Florrie’s expression softened. ‘He says he’ll be happy wherever we are.’ She glanced over at her daughter. ‘You don’t mind us being together?’
‘Oh, Mum,’ said Shirley, putting her bowl down on the ground, ‘I’m absolutely thrilled.’ She threw her arms around Florrie and gave her a hug.
Returning the hug with one of her own, Florrie smiled. ‘Shirley, there’s something else I have to tell you.’
‘Oh dear,’ Shirley joked. ‘This is beginning to be a bit like a priest’s confessional.’
