by Nicola Slade
Ryan was still in bed. No point getting up, nothing to do, not the day for signing on. If Gemma hadn’t been working he could have got her to come round; his mum was down the road till three-thirty, had been since breakfast, working in the kitchen in the Blue Boar. Even Kieran, the faithful dog, was working. Stupid dickhead, always going on about that shit job of his. Who in their right mind would want a job? Still, that said it all, didn’t it? Kieran wasn’t in his right mind really, the great soft pudding. But useful.
Gemma was another great soft pudding, soft in the head, and soft in other parts too. He lay back, arms folded behind his head, watching the porno DVD he’d liberated from a market stall in Eastleigh, and he thought about Gemma and her soft, yielding body. His eyes glistened in anticipation, he was going round there tonight, to that fancy great old folks’ home, and she was to get out and meet him. All that fuss about getting rid of the baby, not ‘feeling’ like it, not going with him, and her bitch of a mother sticking her oar in. Well, it was too long, tonight he was going to get lucky – or else.
Still in hiding behind her curtain, Harriet Quigley watched with interest as Vic and Doreen Buchan gathered up their coats and took their farewells of Fred. Vic clapped him heartily on the shoulder, mumbling empty nothings, clearly anxious to get away and Doreen repeated her earlier performance, a chilly peck on the cheek, given and received with not the slightest evidence of pleasure on either part.
As the couple walked out to the drive Harriet looked out of the window and was intrigued by the sight of Doreen’s pale, ravaged face looking back towards the house. Her shoulders sagged as Christiane Marchant, now being wheeled on the terrace by Gemma, waved gaily at her.
Now, what does all that mean, I wonder, Harriet mused. That woman has only been here a few hours and already she’s upset Tim, got Ellen Ransom sneaking around like a whipped dog, caught Matron on the raw, as well as Fred Buchan, and now here’s Doreen Buchan looking as though she’s been given the Black Spot. What does it all mean? Why do I have a feeling that Christiane Marchant is trouble?
Chapter Four
* * *
Alice was cheerfully singing Christmassy songs, slipping from ‘Jingle Bells’ to ‘White Christmas’, when she broke off abruptly as she realized that, give or take an adjective, it was true. She really was dreaming, looking forward to the day, though the chances of snow falling then in this part of southern England seemed highly unlikely. Not impossible though; look at today with its bright, glittering morning, branches rimed with silver, berries bellying red on the holly, a stout robin yelling his head off on the washing line.
It had been different when Daddy was alive; she looked wistfully down the long avenue of the years. After all the childless years of his first marriage, Daddy had been over the moon at the advent of his little princess, his little miracle, but how had his sophisticated little Breton bride felt about her surprise pregnancy when she was already past forty? Had Christiane ever really wanted a child, Alice wondered? There had been murmurs and whispers sometimes in her childhood, sidelong glances that spoke of dark secrets and terrible things, but timid, frail, asthmatic Alice had never dared provoke the temper so carefully concealed from Daddy.
No, temper tantrums had certainly never featured in Christiane’s dealings with her doting husband. Alice could remember countless occasions when her father had been overcome with remorse at the way his ‘harsh and unkind’ words and actions would set Christiane off on one of her martyred moments. Far from just ‘moments’ either; Alice sighed as she recalled weeks on end when her father had endured sighs and tears when some ill-advised comment had given Christiane an excuse. She had favoured two particular methods of punishment for both daughter and husband. Alice, while her father was still alive, tended to be on the receiving end of gusty sighs and repeated, chilly comments on the lines of: If you don’t know how much you’ve hurt me, I’m certainly not going to spell it out for you. That had been in Daddy’s hearing; in private, Alice was never in any doubt about what she had done to offend.
Her mother had used a different ploy with her husband. This had followed an invariable pattern which involved an initial gasp, a frail hand clutched defensively to her heaving breast, then a torrent of tears, broken only by references to her ‘terrible ordeal’. What that ordeal was, Alice was never permitted to know, but all reference to it had worked like a charm on her father who never failed to be contrite and to bring his injured wife round with offerings of jewellery and chocolate.
The week since Christiane had moved into Firstone Grange had flown by. Alice had paid a duty visit each evening after her blissfully solitary supper and found that absence, while not having any effect on her fondness for her mother, certainly did make it easier to tolerate her in short doses.
Work had become increasingly interesting. Neil, still shuttling between his four branches, had taken to dropping in to the Chambers Forge office every afternoon for a cup of tea and to check out some point with her, to pick her brains on the district, to toss a suggestion or idea into her lap, seeking her opinion. He treats me like a human being; she gave a slight smile as she dead-headed a very late, frost-bitten rose on her way back to the house. And not just a human being, he treats me like an adult woman with a mind of her own and with opinions to be valued and respected.
He thinks I’m real.
Daddy’s precious jewel, arriving just in time for her father’s retirement at sixty, had led a sheltered, enchanted life, too poorly to attend school regularly and, secure in her father’s companionship and love, never feeling the lack of friends her own age. Whisked into hospital with appendicitis, shortly after his death, Alice had come home to find herself allocated a new role, that of lady-in-waiting and slave to her mother.
A neighbour had greeted her as she tottered from the Patient Transport ambulance and led her indoors to where tea had been laid and Christiane sat, weak and saintly, in a wheelchair.
‘Her poor heart,’ whispered the neighbour, who had thoroughly enjoyed playing Florence Nightingale. ‘She’s so brave, so afraid she’ll be a nuisance to you, dear.’
Alice was never very sure what, if anything, was wrong with Christiane’s heart. Nor was her doctor. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he finally admitted. ‘The tests all indicate there’s nothing wrong with her heart, or anything else. It could be some kind of hysterical paralysis,’ he suggested, registering with patent concern Alice’s pale, drawn face. ‘There seems to be no structural damage to the legs, spine, or muscles either, that I or anyone else can detect, but the fact remains, Miss Marchant, that your mother seems unable to walk.’
Yes, it was a convenient organ, Christiane Marchant’s heart, her daughter sighed. It allowed plenty of eating and drinking and other pleasurable activities but prohibited anything strenuous or inconvenient, so Daddy’s Princess was now body slave to Daddy’s Queen. With her stern upbringing in the tradition of filial duty and her singular lack of self-assertiveness Alice did what she had to do. But now, with Christiane at a remove and with her talents at work being valued, Alice Marchant was changing, growing, feeling her way.
Yesterday, for instance, she had gone with Neil to check out some commercial premises in the old docks area of Southampton. As they walked back to the car Alice had sniffed the salty breeze coming in off the sea and savoured the watery gleam of sunshine over the marina. She turned as Neil spoke.
‘Canute Road?’ he queried. ‘Why him? Isn’t he the king who tried to stop the tide coming in? He wasn’t local, was he?’
‘For goodness sake, Neil,’ she was impatient. ‘You should know your local history. Yes, it’s King Canute and no, that’s not what he did. Everyone always gets it wrong.’
‘You mean he’s had a bad press all these years?’
She failed to spot the amusement in his voice and tried to explain. ‘What he was trying to do was demonstrate how hopeless it was to try and stem the tide of invaders, Danes or Normans, I can’t remember which. What he did, just here – see that plaque, th
at was the water line then – was to point out that it was equally impossible to make the tide stay out.’
He raised an eyebrow at her vehemence then leant on a rail to admire the yachts in the marina. ‘I like it down here,’ he commented. ‘It doesn’t take much imagination to picture it in the hey-day of the great liners, does it? The boat train coming in laden with wealthy passengers, not to mention the people in steerage.’ He waved a hand at the blocks of flats, the cinemas and the boats. ‘It’s good that it’s still in use.’
As they drove away Alice peered into the deepening gloom.
‘Looking for something?’ he asked.
‘I’m trying to see if you can see the French church from here. There, did you see? Just round the corner from God’s House Tower, where the museum is.’
‘What? You’ve lost me, Alice. What French church?’
‘Didn’t you know? I suppose not that many people realize it’s there,’ she smiled at him. ‘It’s the old pilgrim’s church, St Julien’s; Mother and I used to go to a service there every year, a pastor came over from Le Havre to conduct the service in French. He might still come, for all I know, but we haven’t gone for years.’
‘Really?’ He was intrigued. ‘I suppose you speak fluent French?’
‘Reasonably fluent,’ she nodded. ‘I suppose I ought to have used it and looked for a proper job but, well, you’ve seen my typing, it never seemed worth the bother.’
‘Don’t be so negative,’ he scolded gently, negotiating more traffic lights before heading homeward. ‘Tell me instead why on earth there should be a French church in Southampton?’
She shook her head slightly at the first part of his remarks, then, ‘There’s always been a lot of trade between Southampton and France, of course, even before the Conquest; well, even before the Romans too. After that the Normans settled in the west of the town and the English stayed in the east and when the Huguenots fled here in Tudor times they took over the church.’ Her dark eyes sparkled as she looked at him. ‘Of course, the Huguenots were protestant and Mother is nominally a catholic but she’s not fussy. She liked to go to the annual service, it made her feel special.’ She blinked, darting a sidelong glance at him. ‘It made me feel special too,’ she said in a startled voice. ‘I’ve never realized that. I’ve obviously more in common with Mother than I thought.’
Back at home and warmed by the memory of that outing with Neil, Alice pirouetted round the room then looked at the dingy kitchen more closely. I wonder how much this place is worth? Maybe we could get rid of this mausoleum and there’d be enough to keep Mother at Firstone Grange and buy something for me, even if it was only a studio flat. I could ask Neil to value it, she thought; then, with startled realization: I could value it myself!
It was a eureka moment. She grabbed a pad of paper and went all over the house making notes, gasping at the figure she reached. I’ll have to get Neil to check that, she thought. The furniture too, that might be worth money; some of it was enormous Victorian mahogany but quite a lot dated from earlier times, pride and joy of Daddy’s great-grandparents. Would that be worth money too? An appointment for the local auctioneer to take a look was made before reaction set in and she had to sit down and confront the undercurrent of terror that was threatening to submerge her sudden burst of – what? Courage? Lunacy? What would happen when Christiane found out?
Matron Winslow stood on a high pine stool fixing garlands of tinsel and greenery to the staircase’s ornate spindles. The entrance hall was now beginning to resemble her dream of a picture-book yuletide and the pitch-pine panelling offered an ideal background for her decorations. Oak logs lay ready in the fire basket; copper pans gleamed along the mantelpiece, highlighting her best arrangement of carnations and Christmas greenery.
Miss Winslow was delighted with her efforts. The house was looking wonderful, a piney-spicy-plumminess in the air and a sense of anticipation almost palpable about the residents, even the stolid suet puddings among them. Luckily, she thought, the suet puddings were in the minority, her gamble – to have a short-stay clientele – had proved, by and large, a great success.
Two of the first guests had now signed up to move in to the nursing home next door and one or two had enquired about the proposed sheltered flats; all in all it was very gratifying. She was a happy woman, so why, Matron puzzled now, why did she have this feeling of unease? A shiver ran through her and she almost crossed her fingers, though not generally a superstitious woman. Instead she decided that she would make time to walk up to the village church and lay her problem before the proper authority. God will provide, she thought with relief.
Pauline Winslow would have been even more uneasy had she known that another woman at Firstone Grange shared her misgivings. Getting on for forty years of ruling over classrooms meant Harriet was attuned to nuances of emotion: little frissons of guilt, private anxieties an open book to the accomplished reader of humankind. There is something going on here, she thought, and debated with herself as to the cause and what, if anything, she could or should do about it.
There was no doubt, she decided, that the heart of the trouble was Christiane Marchant. The woman sat in her wheelchair oozing sweetness and light but gradually it seemed that everyone had come to loathe her, even those who had initially responded to her undoubted charm. Harriet, observing her closely where others simply turned away in distaste, felt there was something repellent about the way the woman savoured the little nuggets of information she extracted so artfully from her victims; her victims who, too late, cursed themselves for giving away so much more of themselves than they had intended or indeed realized.
Little snippets, quite innocuous gleanings, such as the titbit of gossip about a resident recently departed to spend Christmas in the South of France. That guest would have been mortified to know that instead of the grand upbringing she claimed, everyone now knew that her alma mater had been not Roedean, but a run-down school in a city slum.
That guest was safely out of the way but Ellen Ransom was far from all right. Harriet pursed her lips. I almost wish I had Sam here, to bounce ideas off him, she sighed, at least I could tell him that the Marchant woman seems to delight in sneaking her well-oiled wheelchair up behind Mrs Ransom and talking at her. It sounds perfectly innocuous, what she says, Harriet recalled, but Ellen is looking grey and pinched and she looks worse after every conversation with Mrs Marchant. And now I think the woman has got something on young Gemma; Harriet frowned, the girl was so happy when I first arrived but now she’s creeping round like a little mouse.
Harriet wasn’t the only person who was worried about Gemma. The girl had worried herself sick as she scuttled around the house trying to forget what had happened, trying to enjoy the excitement and anticipation that had the residents stirring. It had seemed innocent enough, to start with.
‘Go on,’ Ryan had coaxed. ‘I want to see you, Gem, and it’s too cold to meet down the Rec. I’ll bring Kieran. We can say he’s your cousin come to see how you are, if anybody wants to know. People always like him.’
When he wheedled in that special, sexy voice she knew, as he did, that there was no way she could resist but still she felt anxious. Mrs Turner wouldn’t like it, she knew, but the housekeeper was out for the evening and Matron was safely out of the way, entertaining members of the trust who ran the nursing home next door. All Gemma had to do was serve supper-time drinks, and then her time was her own.
She slid back the bolt on the back door, peering out to see two indistinct shapes in the blackness.
‘Quick, come in before somebody sees you,’ she implored, pulling at Ryan’s sleeve and prodding Kieran’s slow bulk to get him indoors.
‘All right, all right,’ Ryan was in a good mood, boisterous and laughing as he drew her roughly towards him. ‘OK, Gem, come here.’ He kissed her fiercely, hurting her, but she was his, in his power, he could do anything to her and it wouldn’t matter. She scarcely noticed that he was propelling her towards the old, disused wash-house, mutt
ering a word to Kieran.
‘Stay there and keep watch,’ he hissed a savage warning, wiping the anticipation off the other boy’s bewildered, fat, red face. ‘Make sure we don’t get caught!’
Confused by the speed of events Kieran barely had time to nod before the door slammed in his face. His face puckered, this wasn’t part of his plan, how could he see what they were doing, stuck here in the back scullery? Looking round he spotted a gleam of light above the ill-fitting planks of the wash-house door and, feeling very clever, he tip-toed across the flagged scullery floor and picked up a wooden stool. Wicked! He could see everything through a two inch gap, licking his lips as Gemma protested about the light.
‘But I want to check out the goods, Gem, so shut up and get your kit off.’
Kieran’s eyes were soon bulging as Gemma, with Ryan’s increasingly fevered assistance, slipped out of her jumper and then her bra. Kieran was so excited at what he could see, and so desperate to see what was out of his line of vision, that he almost got caught out when, surprisingly quickly, it was all over and Ryan scrambled to his feet, zipping up his fly. In a frenzy of anxious haste Kieran tumbled off the stool, shoved it back by the sink and sat on it, reaching for an old newspaper and pretending to read it. Just in time, he managed to give quite a convincing start when the wash-house door opened.
‘That’s better,’ Ryan smirked. ‘You fit then, Kieran? Let’s go down the pub. You got any cash, Gem?’ He sneered, without comment, at the two-pound coin plus a couple of ones that was all she could offer. ‘Text me when you get time off.’ At the back door he turned casually, as though struck by a sudden thought. ‘You said the old gits have got a concert or something on Friday, didn’t you?’
