by Nicola Slade
‘I thought you had to have asbestos doors too, in an institution like this,’ she said, her eyes sparkling. ‘I’m sure those big mahogany doors are a fire hazard.’
‘As it happens you’re quite out-of-date, Mrs Marchant, I can assure you that asbestos is no longer used on doors.’ She turned on her heel. ‘And this is not an institution, Mrs Marchant,’ she snapped, striding away. That woman is a menace; I wish something would happen to make her go away. But I won’t let her spoil things for me, not now.
‘Dear me,’ Christiane put on her plaintive face. The evening promised more entertainment than was on the official programme, she thought with relish. What next? Aha, her eyes lighted on Fred Buchan, hunched in his chair, a dejected tortoise.
‘Good evening, Mr Buchan,’ she cried brightly, drawing her chair up beside him. ‘How are you today?’
Not waiting for, and not getting, any reply she waved a copy of the Daily Telegraph under his nose, her bright eyes watchful, gauging his temper. ‘Did you read the books page yesterday? I saved it specially for you. There’s a very good review of a book about the Israeli squad dedicated to rooting out old war criminals? I’ve marked it here, I’m sure you’d find it interesting.’
His hooded eyes flicked open but she met his hostile glare with a broadening smile.
‘I wonder if there are any of them left. I don’t suppose the Israelis would be too gentle with them, do you? An eye for an eye, and all that?’
Fred Buchan hauled himself out of his easy chair, staggering as he found his feet. As he stalked from the room he shot a glance back at her. ‘You are an evil bitch,’ he grated, his accent harsher, more pronounced, than usual.
As Christiane wheeled herself complacently out into the hall to watch the preparations, Harriet, who had watched this exchange with distaste, strolled over and casually picked up the discarded newspaper with its headline helpfully ringed by Christiane Marchant: Retribution Squad Investigates War Criminals. She pursed her lips as she scanned the piece about persistent rumours of old Nazis living in Britain under aliases and she pictured Fred Buchan with his strongly accented speech and his grim refusal to discuss his history. With a thoughtful frown she deftly ripped out the article and stowed it in her handbag just as a crowd of visitors arrived.
‘You’re looking a lot more human.’ Sam Hathaway hugged his cousin and piloted her towards the bar. ‘Less like something the cat dragged in. Here, have a drink and tell me all about—’ He broke off hastily as she glared at him, seeing Mrs Turner smiling at them both. ‘Tell me about the book I gave you,’ he changed tack smoothly. ‘Why was Madcap Mabel in tears?’
‘It was as I thought,’ Harriet backed him up. ‘She’d been unjustly accused, not to mention getting involved with ghosts.’ He raised an eyebrow and she explained. ‘Poor but noble owner of a stately home has opened it as a girls’ school to make ends meet, but the wimpy wenches are scared of the headless Elizabethan lady who wails around the Great Hall. Mabel eventually banishes her, would you believe, by having a maypole dance indoors and then it turns out she’s the noble owner’s long-lost heiress. Not a dry eye in the house at the end. It was great, a real find; thank you, Sam.’
‘Look at them all,’ Mrs Turner murmured. ‘The families are delighted because they’ll have a granny-free Christmas and the grannies are delighted not to have Christmas ruined by shrieking grandchildren and noisy toys. It’s so much easier to love your relatives in small doses and with a clear conscience!’
‘Quickly, Harriet.’ Sam spoke quietly but urgently as he steered his cousin into a convenient nook by the stairs. ‘What’s the matter with you? No,’ as she began to protest. ‘Don’t give me that. You do look a lot better, it’s true, but I also know when you’re upset. What’s happened?’
‘It was that bloody woman,’ she hissed. ‘And don’t you look at me like that, Sam Hathaway; she makes me so mad I have to swear! She cornered me just after dinner and came out with the old “concerned friend” routine at me. “Wasn’t it Lakelands Manor School, Miss Quigley? It was all over the local papers and on the television too. The one where you were head teacher? Oh dear, oh dear, but surely that was the school there was all that dreadful scandal about?” And out it all came, tumbling out in a cascade. She was so keen to tell me that she knew all about the whole wretched mess that she was actually tripping over her words. I tried to stop her but she went on and on. All about the deputy head – “Oh dear, such a terrible thing to happen, interfering with children like that.…” And then the killer punchline: “But of course you must have known all about it, Miss Quigley, after all, you were the head teacher. It was your responsibility to look after the children in your care.” I tell you, Sam, I could have hit the woman.’
Looking slightly alarmed at all this vehemence, Sam gave her a quick, affectionate hug. ‘For heaven’s sake, Hat, the whole sorry affair was investigated thoroughly and you were completely exonerated, never in the frame, in fact. For a start, the offences had occurred six months before you were appointed and everyone knew it. After all, that’s why you were offered the job – damage limitation and to restore confidence; and you did a marvellous job. Ignore the woman, she’s not worth getting so worked up about.’
Still thrumming with anger Harriet subsided gradually, giving his hand a grateful squeeze. ‘Oh, I know,’ she agreed, blowing her nose discreetly. ‘But … honestly, Sam, that woman is poison, sheer poison.’
Fed up with craning her neck to look for Alice, Christiane looked for other sport, gleefully making for Doreen and Vic Buchan.
‘Evening, dear,’ she greeted Doreen with a fond smile, receiving only a gasp in reply, as Christiane parked expertly alongside her. Vic nodded politely and offered to fetch them all a glass of wine.
Christiane patted her victim’s hand. ‘This is cosy, isn’t it, dear? I was just talking to Matron, saying how cosy it is and she agreed. “It’s not an institution,” she told me.’
There was no answer. Doreen had withdrawn into herself, clutching at her handbag.
‘Of course, dear, you’d know all about what an institution looks like, wouldn’t you? What does your husband think about it all? Didn’t he mind?’ Her eyes gleamed as the frightened rabbit twitched. ‘Don’t mind me, dear; I mean no harm, you know. It’s just that somehow, people have always told me their little secrets and I do have an excellent memory. You’d be surprised how easy it is to make connections sometimes.’ She paused, then smiled. ‘You did tell your husband all about it, didn’t you, dear? When you got married?’ Her concerned expression would have been an Oscar contender. ‘I mean about your mother and what she did. Where she went?’
It was immensely satisfying to hear Doreen Buchan groan, to see her writhe, to have her turn tortured eyes on her tormentor.
‘Leave me alone,’ she gritted, fumbling at the arm of her chair. ‘Leave me alone, I hate you. I could kill you.’
She stumbled into the darkened dining-room just as Vic appeared carefully toting three brimming glasses.
‘Where’s Dor then?’ he looked mildly surprised.
‘She’s just gone for a breath of air,’ Christiane reassured him as she accepted her drink. ‘It’s getting a bit close in here.’
Lurking by the kitchen door and hoping to waylay Neil, her insider in the band, to warn him to pick his victims carefully, Harriet was surprised when, alerted by a slight movement in the scullery, she spotted Gemma fiddling with the outer door, looking flushed and guilty. Just then the seven members of the Oompah Band appeared and Neil, nattily clad in lederhosen, embroidered shirt, wide braces and dapper feathered hat, paused for a quick word.
‘Don’t worry, Old Hat,’ he reassured her, grinning as she frowned at his use of Sam’s nickname for her. ‘Alice warned me already. I know who can take it and which ones to avoid.’ Appeased, she let him shoo her back to the audience as the band struck up an Oompah rhythm and marched into the hall, round the room and up the stairs to the minstrels’ gallery. As they took their p
laces the door to the outer lobby opened a crack and Alice Marchant slipped in, tiptoeing shyly to the empty chair beside her mother.
‘You!’ shrieked the band leader, pointing an accusing finger. ‘Vot do you sink you are doink? Vy are you being so late?’
Startled, Alice lifted a blushing face towards the band and caught Neil’s eye. At his reassuring wink she smiled and sat down, hoping the band leader would move on to other prey.
‘Ve vill not vait for you again,’ he threatened her, however. ‘I sink you shall pay for zis, by giving me a big, sloppy kiss und gettink me a drink in ze interval, mein fraulein!’
Alice smiled and nodded, thankful to get off lightly but amused none the less, and the band played on, interspersing their pieces with a non-stop series of gags, sketches and slapstick, neatly treading the thin line between comedy and abuse, offending nobody and sending them off into fits of laughter.
Outwardly docile, sitting demurely beside her mother, Alice was enveloped in a glow of remembered bliss. Nothing can touch me now she thought; nothing can hurt me, not after last night. It had come as such a surprise. She had known Neil liked her as a colleague and, lately, as a friend, and she had helplessly recognized that her own feeling for him came close to idolatry as the one person in the world who had seen her as a real, adult woman, not a drudge, not just an invisible, dowdy spinster.
That he could have fallen in love with her had simply not entered her head and his awkward declaration had taken her unaware. There had been no time to consider, no room for shyness, carried away as they had both been on that tide of passion, though he had been very gentle, in spite of his urgency, and so her virginity had finally been lost with very little discomfort. Before he reluctantly left her they had made love again and Alice had discovered at last what all the fuss was about; and now she sat in the festive hall at Firstone Grange trying to disguise the adoration she felt for him.
Christiane shifted uneasily beside her daughter, this new, serene Alice, glowing with confidence and happiness. What’s happened to her, she frowned? If it was anyone else I’d say there was a man involved, but Alice? As the band reached the end of their last number before the interval Christiane remembered a notion that had occurred to her the previous evening, a way to depress any pretension to independence that Alice might be harbouring. I’ll put a spoke in her wheel, she decided, I’m not having her get any ideas, she’s looking far too pleased with herself.
‘You can order a taxi for eleven tomorrow morning.’ She nudged Alice to make sure her daughter was listening. ‘I’m not really that struck on this place, the Matron thinks a lot of herself so I’m going home.’
She leaned back in her wheelchair waiting for a reaction and was not surprised to see the colour drain out of Alice’s cheeks.
‘No!’ The involuntary protest was explosive and Alice was as surprised as her mother at the force of her speech. ‘No, we’ve paid in advance and it’s too much money to waste. I’m sorry, Mother, but you’ll be staying here over Christmas as we arranged. Besides, I’ve been working nearly full-time lately. We’re very busy, rushed off our feet, so I wouldn’t be able to look after you properly.’
‘Don’t you dare tell me I can’t go back to my own house, madam.’ Christiane spat out the words during an outbreak of chatter and bustle at the beginning of the interval. ‘If you won’t call me a taxi I’ll ring for one myself.’
She wheeled herself away, her forehead creased with angry lines, cursing Alice for that surprising show of strength. In fact she was perfectly comfortable at Firstone Grange and had no intention of passing up such a delicious fount of opportunities to meddle and to annoy. I’ll make her pay, she vowed, and I’m certainly not letting her off the hook. Just let her sweat it out till tomorrow morning, waiting to see if I carry out my threat.
Feeling refreshed, she spotted Ellen Ransom sitting beside Tim Armstrong. Just what I need, she thought, two for the price of one.
Stranded in her chair Alice slumped, trembling with rage and a burning anguish. For a few blissful hours she had almost forgotten about her mother, had spent the day at work exchanging delicious secret smiles with Neil and, when the office was empty, exchanging even more delicious secret kisses. She had felt strong and invincible, able to cope with her mother, able to cope with anything life chose to throw at her. And now— Oh God, she prayed, give me strength. Make her die.
Gemma was as anxious as Alice. Obedient to Ryan’s prompting she had left the back door unlocked while he and Kieran went off to the pub, because he said he would look in later on, ‘to listen to the band, no harm in that, is there?’ What was he up to? Gemma knew his sudden interest in the residents at Firstone Grange had nothing to do with a feeling of festive goodwill. She sighed and hoped Kieran might be able to restrain Ryan, knowing that Kieran, like Gemma herself, was nothing more than his faithful dog.
She straightened up and bustled round the hall collecting empty glasses and neatly avoiding the colonel who was becoming heavily gallant after a couple of glasses of Merlot. He was exhibiting a distressing tendency to want to pat her bottom, not that she minded really, it made him feel young and handsome, and didn’t bother her. As she bent to pick up a glass she felt someone’s eyes on her and looked up to meet Christiane Marchant’s gaze. The French woman smiled at her and, looking round, spotted the matron, nodded significantly at Gemma and wheeled herself over towards Pauline Winslow.
Gemma gripped the back of a convenient chair, her legs suddenly cotton wool. I hate her, she wailed inwardly. I hate her.
To Christiane Marchant’s satisfaction she spotted that Tim Armstrong and Ellen Ransom were both watching her approach with apprehension written clearly on their faces. Hemmed in as they were by a throng of residents and guests beside the makeshift bar, there was no escape for either of them.
‘Very festive, isn’t it?’ came the merry greeting as Christine rolled up in front of them. ‘I like those old songs, don’t you, Ellen? Reminds me of the time, just at the end of the War, when I came over here: those were the days and no mistake. I had a lovely time. I was something a bit different, you see,’ she explained to Tim who looked both fascinated and terrified. ‘What with being French and pretty. I was smart, and clever with it, soon had all the fellows round me.’
She looked at Ellen with a conspiratorial air. ‘Good gracious, but we all had a time of it, didn’t we, dear? My word, if some of the men who were still in the Far East could have known what their wives were up to! Sometimes you heard of girls who’d got themselves in a fix taking desperate steps to get themselves out of trouble, none of this abortion on tap like there is nowadays, eh? No, you had to take matters into your own hands if you were desperate then.’
Ellen lost colour and Christiane, satisfied with her efforts, turned her sights on Tim, changing tack. ‘Of course, lots of people get desperate, don’t they, Mr Armstrong? Not just in wartime either. Sometimes they have to move house to avoid the shame of what they’ve done, or the shame of what some member of their family might have done. Still, however carefully you cover your tracks, there’s always somebody who finds out about these things, isn’t there, Mr Armstrong? Such a shame.’
‘I do beg your pardon.’ A pleasant voice broke in abruptly and a tall man with silver hair loomed over the trio. ‘I’m Sam Hathaway, Mr Armstrong, Harriet Quigley’s cousin. I think we’ve met once or twice on committees and so forth?’
‘Excuse me.’ Matron had materialized and spoke at the same moment but she smiled and nodded to Sam to continue. He shook his head and she went on: ‘Oh, thank you, Canon Hathaway. I’m so sorry, but I shall have to ask you to move, Mrs Marchant. I’m afraid your wheelchair marks the parquet so I’ve put down a special mat for you. I do apologize but the floor in the hall here is rather special, so we are obliged to preserve it.’
She took a firm hold of Christiane Marchant’s chair and wheeled her away to a spot in the corner just in front of the minstrel’s gallery and well away from the rest of the seating. ‘
There we are,’ she said heartily, parking the seething woman on the small rug. ‘That’s much better. I’m afraid you won’t get much of a view of the band from here, not that you can see much in this dim light, but at least you’re right next to the table with the mince pies. Help yourself if you feel peckish, won’t you.’
Sam silently applauded Pauline Winslow’s masterly strategy, having watched her become aware that Ellen and Tim were under attack from their tormentor. Giving her a mental three cheers he stooped to give Tim a hand and went on, without waiting for a reply. ‘Come and join Harriet and me, she’s put her coat on a table over there to save it, and gone off to grab us a drink.’
Under cover of his gentle flow of talk Sam hoisted the older man out of his seat and hauled him off to join Harriet. He shot Ellen Ransom a speculative glance, wondering what the brief exchange he had overheard could possibly mean. Not really an exchange, if it comes to that, he decided with a wry smile, considering neither Tim nor Ellen had uttered, but the threat in Christiane Marchant’s words had been unmistakable, as had the hatred in Ellen’s face.
‘That woman deserves to die,’ said Tim, suddenly quite lucid.
Chapter Seven
* * *
‘Places, everyone, please,’ called Matron fifteen minutes later as she fussed over her flock, urging them back to their seats and away from the bar. She cast a rapid look round, counting heads. Yes, Mrs Marchant was still there, where she’d been parked, thank goodness. Certainly, she had a sullen expression but she was stationary, taking advantage of the permission granted her, and munching her way through some of the remaining mince pies on the long table that separated her from the rest of the audience.
