An Unholy Mess

by Joyce Cato

  Yet on that fine lovely morning, looking down at the mundane scene below and contemplating with excitement what was to come, Julie felt calm, certain and committed. Love, she supposed complacently, did that to you. The silly little teenager that she’d been before, doing the whole gap-year thing but really learning nothing from her travels, was now long gone.

  Instead, she was becoming a woman, and her mother would just have to deal with that. If she, Julie, could analyse herself enough to see what was happening to her, why couldn’t her mother do the same for herself? Perhaps she should just sit her mother down and explain things to her. Just because her only daughter was about to leave the nest, didn’t mean her life was over. OK, so she was in her late forties now. She was still an attractive woman. If Vera could find love at her age, why couldn’t Joan?

  Julie’s contemplation was interrupted by a sharp sound from below.

  John Lerwick yelped as a folding table inexplicably snapped shut on his fingers and he cursed under his breath, grimacing at his own clumsiness, making Julie, from her lofty perch, giggle. Hearing it, he looked up and gave a cheery wave.

  Everyone, Julie supposed, liked John – even that snobby Pauline Weeks, ever since she found out that he was the creator of a cartoon strip in a big daily tabloid, and was thus a minor celebrity in his own right.

  Julie found his cartoons, always set in the animal world, to be invariably hilarious and well-drawn, and they were always the first thing she went to over her morning cornflakes.

  Her mother, of course, only read the Guardian.

  With a small sigh as she thought of her mother once more, Julie turned away from the window. All complacency aside about how all her mother really needed was to get herself a life, she was feeling rather worried about Joan. Her mother, as Julie well knew and sometimes to her cost, was not an easy person to deceive, and Julie was beginning to feel distinctly nervous now. Joan Dix’s radar for trouble had always been finely honed, no doubt as a result of her disastrous marriage, and Julie knew she needed to be treated with caution.

  So no matter how much Sean explained how easy it would all be once they’d made the initial effort, she knew that there were still so many things that could go drastically wrong. And her mother finding out what was happening and messing it all up was definitely one of them.

  Usually a placid person, Joan had a side to her that could be surprisingly frightening.

  Julie wished that it would soon all be over, but the garden party wasn’t even due to start until two. Even as she heard more laughing voices coming from below, she felt herself shiver and, rising from her seat, walked restlessly about the apartment, ending up in her bedroom, where she lay stretched out on her bed, and staring at the ceiling morosely. In here, she couldn’t hear the preparations being made below.

  The old vicarage had been built like a big square ‘C’ with two wings looking out across one another over a small expanse of central, formal gardens. The party was being held in this part of the grounds, which meant that those with flats overlooking the back of the vicarage wouldn’t have a view of it at all.

  Julie tossed restlessly onto her side. She was sure that Margaret suspected something, and might become spiteful enough to pick an argument, or maybe even create a public scene. Which would ruin all their plans.

  ‘What’s that big sigh for?’ Joan asked from the open doorway.

  Julie jumped, then shrugged. ‘Oh, nothing.’ She smiled brightly and sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and regarding her painted toenails thoughtfully. ‘It’s just this party. I wish we didn’t have to go.’ She didn’t realize it, but an edge of real desperation had sounded in her voice, and Joan frowned, suddenly looking her age.

  Joan’s husband had died several years ago, but not before leading his long-suffering wife a merry and utterly demoralising little dance. Fidelity hadn’t been a word that Roger Dix kept in his personal dictionary, which had, not surprisingly, given Joan’s personality a certain twist.

  She simply didn’t trust men anymore, and had never even been tempted to date during the last five years of her widowhood. In her philosophy, men simply led you on, got you in trouble then left you to cope alone. And she wanted more than that for her Julie. Much more.

  ‘What have you got against the party all of a sudden?’ she asked now, instantly on the alert.

  Julie had always wanted to go to college and study to become a vet – a worthy ambition that her mother had always heartily supported. In her opinion, a woman needed a good profession, and to be self-sufficient right from the start. And to that end, she’d scrimped and saved and made sure to invest her late husband’s insurance policy money wisely, to ensure that her daughter wouldn’t be saddled with student debts that would hang around her neck like a millstone. Her daughter’s future had thus always been set in stone, and was therefore one less thing for her to worry about.

  Now, as Joan looked down at her, she noticed the dark smudges under her daughter’s pretty green eyes, making her wonder what was keeping her from sleeping at nights. Her lips tightened as the suspicions that had been festering in her for the last few weeks suddenly erupted. Grimly, she told herself not to anticipate the worst.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. You might surprise yourself, and actually enjoy it. Monica’s gone to a lot of trouble to make it a success. And she strikes me as the sort of woman who usually succeeds in doing what she sets out to do. I’m sure we’ll all have a good time.’

  Julie shrugged. ‘Oh, it’s just not my kind of thing, that’s all,’ she muttered evasively. ‘I mean – it’s so retro.’

  Joan tried to relax. Teenage tantrums she could cope with – if that’s all it was. ‘Come on, love, it won’t be as bad as you think. Monica only suggested it as a way for us all to get to know each other better. It’d be silly not to be friendly. You like Vera and John, don’t you? And the others will probably turn out to be quite nice too, once we get to know them.’

  ‘Sure. Look, forget I said anything,’ Julie said, backtracking quickly. ‘Besides, it’s you who has to live here, not me,’ she added thoughtlessly.

  Joan nodded, turning away quickly, lest her daughter see her sudden tears. Julie, an only child, had been Joan’s whole world for as long as she could remember. Unloved and neglected by her husband, the birth of their daughter had finally given Joan a reason for being. She’d finally found someone to love without fear. And love her she had. Sometimes so fiercely that even Joan’s friends had worried about her. There was something almost unnatural about the devotion Joan had for her only offspring.

  So when Julie had finally enrolled at university, she had felt bereft. Relocating here – to be nearer to Julie’s chosen college – had seemed like the thing to do. She knew that Julie was hoping that she would be able to make a new life for herself here, and, indeed, life in the country was actually suiting her very well. She liked Monica Noble and her husband, and was already making friends in the village, and had just joined the WI. Plus, she’d even found a new job in the pretty, nearby market town, which had done wonders for her self-confidence.

  So when Julie had first come here, she had been relieved to see that her mother had looked more relaxed than she had in a long time. Which went a long way towards assuaging her guilt for what she was about to do now.

  But there was no help for it. Julie simply had to have Sean. Life simply wasn’t worth much without him.

  Now Joan sighed heavily. It still caught her on the raw to be reminded that Julie wouldn’t be living with her full-time anymore. Sometimes, she felt on the verge of panic, and during the day, she’d sit for hours, thinking up ways to scare the men away from her daughter. And one man in particular.

  ‘Look, Mum, why don’t I make a proper fruit punch for this party?’ Julie said, guessing the reason for her mother’s gloom and desperately seeking to distract her. ‘I’ll even sneak some rum into it.’

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ Joan squeaked, thinking of Monica Noble. Not that she thought Moni
ca would mind, but, well, she was still the vicar’s wife. And such things still meant something to someone of Joan’s upbringing, which had been rather conservative and traditional, being the only daughter of parents who’d waited late in life to start a family.

  Julie firmly ushered her mother out and towards the kitchen.

  ‘Why don’t you start on it for me? You know, peel some oranges and stuff. I’ll be there in a minute.’

  Joan moved off to the kitchen. But once there, she paused abruptly in the middle of the room, thinking furiously. Her daughter’s tactics didn’t fool her, not for one minute. Besides, she’d been thinking about things, and had already decided what she’d have to do.

  She would have to tackle Margaret Franklyn. Yes. That was by far the best thing to do. After all, the woman had as much to lose as Joan did. It only made sense for them to get their heads together and sort it out, once and for all.

  Julie watched her mother go and sighed. Then, unable to prevent herself, she crossed to her dresser, and reached into her underwear drawer. There, she pulled out a piece of dark cream paper and read the loving words, then gently rested the letter against her lips, kissing it and feeling foolish but happy.

  Who said that romance, real romance that is, not the poor imitation that passed for it today, was dead? She felt excited and scared and just a little bit sick. What they were going to do was so final. A proper, grand gesture. But for her lover, she’d take whatever risks he asked of her, she thought, with a delicious pang of fatalism.

  Reluctantly, she put the letter away and sighed. She’d told him she’d destroyed all his letters long ago, per their checklist. But she hadn’t been able to bring herself to consign this last letter to the flames.

  If only he wasn’t married. And to such a bitch! Things would have been so much easier. They wouldn’t have had to do any of this, then. It just wasn’t fair!

  Sean was such a great planner and clever thinker, though, Julie comforted herself nervously. Surely nothing could go wrong? Even so, she felt sick with nerves.

  One floor down, Dr Maurice Keating checked his appearance in the mirror, and fiddled restlessly with his thick silver mane – secretly, his pride and joy – wondering if his present barber cut his hair as well as the old one had. He thought not on the whole, but he was cheaper. Not that such penny-pinching need concern him for much longer, he thought with a smile. Soon he’d be able to afford again all the fine things in life that he’d once taken for granted.

  The thought made his smile widen even further with satisfaction, and he adjusted his cuffs before wandering back to the lounge to read his paper. From time to time he heard noises outside in the garden, but felt no inclination to go down and offer his services. He was not the sort to enjoy manual labour, not even the modest kind required on golf courses or croquet lawns.

  Besides, he was doing his bit by bringing cheese and pickles to the party, and had already cut off the whitening crusts from the days-old cheese that he’d bought on sale at one of Cheltenham’s lower-end supermarkets. The jar of pickles had been a Christmas present from an allotment-owning friend who grew all his own shallots. And since Maurice was far too fastidious to eat them, having always had a horror of getting bad breath, they’d been pickling away merrily in a dark corner of his larder ever since.

  He frowned, and hoped that the sound of the party wouldn’t spook his rather shy friend, who was due to visit later that afternoon. But he’d warned him about it, and had explained everything that he needed, ad infinitum. He wouldn’t let him down, surely?

  Maurice tried not to worry about it. Unlike Julie, Maurice had been looking forward to the party enormously. He was very much a social animal and liked the way people responded with satisfying reverence to his brains and erudition. So when he’d first received his invitation from the vicar’s good lady, he’d accepted with alacrity.

  And then the new arrivals had moved in, and completely out of the blue, his world had come crashing down around his ears.

  Getting to his feet now, he walked over to the window. It was still only ten-thirty, and already distressingly humid. Along with fear of developing halitosis, Maurice hated the thought of sweating, too. Body odour was yet another of his pet hates.

  ‘Damn, it’s going to be hot,’ he murmured, watching that wonderful woman Vera Ainsley arranging vases of roses on the tables. If it wasn’t for that moonstruck John Lerwick always hanging around her, he might have made moves in that direction himself. Her cookery books sold very well indeed, or so he’d heard. And a wealthy woman was always that bit more attractive than one who lived in Penury Street. But now, even setting off on that simple little adventure was out of the question.

  Maurice prowled around the room restlessly. He felt uneasy, deep in his bones, now that the time had come for action. But the visitor due to arrive wouldn’t take kindly to being put off at this late stage, and might even turn nasty. Besides, other events had also been put into motion now. So even if he’d wanted to, there was no backing out now.

  On the ground floor in flat 4, Margaret Franklyn lay back in the tub, a small contented smile on her face. She’d just purchased a floating, white lace over cream silk Jaeger dress, and she was determined to wear it to this ridiculous little garden party. She’d had her hair done that morning, and it was now carefully protected in a shower cap. She had hours left yet to do her makeup, and was utterly determined to be the most lovely thing around this afternoon, just to show them all.

  To show that silly little teenager what a real woman could look like, for instance. Oh yes, she knew exactly what Julie Dix was up to, and boy did she have a great big spoke to put in her wheel. She also couldn’t wait to see her husband’s face when her lawyer served the divorce papers on him. Margaret laughed happily to herself, soaped her skinny legs, and thought about jewellery.

  Jewellery was her one great love. It had been the fact that she couldn’t afford to buy the really spectacular pieces that had started her designing and making her own. Selling the pieces after she got bored with them had been an afterthought, but had led to her forming her own small business, which was proving to be a nice little earner.

  It was ironic that now she could afford to buy almost all the baubles her heart desired.

  She sighed amid the bubbles, mentally going over her options. With a white dress she could wear almost anything of course, and just yesterday she’d finished some stunning pieces in aquamarine and moonstone. She’d look sensational.

  If only those diamond earrings hadn’t been stolen! Still, she’d fixed that Carol-Ann’s thieving little wagon all right. The police sergeant she’d talked to on the phone that morning had been given a right rocket. There’d be some action soon on that front, she was sure of it.

  She was so looking forward to seeing Monica Noble’s superior nose put out of joint when her precious little chick was hauled off to the cells. Something about the vicar’s wife had always rubbed her the wrong way; there was something so knowing in those big baby blues of hers that made Margaret feel petty and small.

  With a snort, Margaret forced herself to think of something far more amusing. Like the pathetic Pauline Weeks for instance. Not that it would be hard to put her in the shade. Perhaps, just for the hell of it, she’d create a little mischief there. Pauline was so obviously panting for Paul Waring – a situation just brimming with laughter-making possibilities.

  Oh, she was going to have fun this afternoon! And when she thought about her secret meeting, and all the goodies that that entailed, she laughed even louder.

  Most of the old-time villagers, plus a good portion of those from the new estates, were also contemplating fun just then. A small, old-fashioned fair, complete with dodgem cars, roundabouts and a Ferris wheel had come to Cheltenham, oozing nostalgia (and goldfish in plastic bags) like a leaky tap, and thus proving irresistible to many. Monica had noted its advertised arrival just three days after issuing all the invitations to her own party, and had felt like spitting. She’d contemplated
changing the date of the party, but by then Vera had enthusiastically taken up the challenge, and there was no going back.

  And, to be fair, most of the vicarage residents probably hadn’t intended to go to the fair anyway. It was certainly below Maurice, who wouldn’t be seen dead at such a place, and both Pauline Weeks and Paul Waring probably considered themselves far too sophisticated and modern-minded to be lured there.

  But for most of the residents of Heyford Bassett, a summer visit to the fair was high old entertainment, and already the place was becoming unusually deserted. Streams of cars had been seen steadily disappearing up the hill, the only route out of the village, that lead to the main B-road about half a mile away, leaving behind then an almost eerily silent, and near-empty village. Only, in a small country village, there was always someone watching and listening.

  In his study, Graham Noble blinked rapidly.

  ‘Venus?’ he repeated, staring at the gum-chewing, enthusiastic young mother in front of him. He glanced helplessly across at her pimply, equally young partner. ‘Venus?’ he repeated again.

  They were unmarried, and, in his judgement, were likely to remain so, even though they’d come to him to discuss the Christening arrangements for their week-old baby daughter.

  ‘You want to call her Venus?’ Graham said again, as if repeating the fact often enough would make it sink in.

  ‘Venus Marjoram,’ said the mother, popping a gum bubble enthusiastically, and nodding. ‘Right. We haven’t registered her yet, because we couldn’t agree on a name, but now we have, right, Stevie?’ By her side, the proud father shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  ‘I see,’ Graham swallowed hard. He glanced at the boy again – remembering him vaguely from long ago days when he’d sung in the choir. Or rather, caterwauled in the choir.