by Nicola Slade
Chapter Ten
* * *
A short nap in her room refreshed Harriet and after she splashed her face with cold water to wake herself up properly, she went downstairs with her book to sit in the sun parlour. The book failed to keep her interest, wrapped up as she was in this complex and unlikely puzzle at Firstone Grange.
Why can’t I leave it alone, she wondered. After all, the coroner’s officer was satisfied that Christiane Marchant’s sudden death was nothing more than everyone else had all assumed, a gruesome accident. Why get involved? Why should she interfere? Was it to serve the ends of a noble cause like Miss Silver, Patricia Wentworth’s governess sleuth, or perhaps Miss Marple with her passion for justice? A grin flitted across her face. It was, she admitted, much more the case that she, like Hercule Poirot, was full of overweening conceit. In the long ago world of her childhood, she had overheard a much-tried babysitter complain, ‘Young Harriet’s a real little madam sometimes, she simply won’t be told!’
She was right, Harriet sighed now with an air of nostalgic complacency, I simply won’t be told.
Those other occupants of Firstone Grange whose slumbers had been troubled on earlier nights by the malevolent presence of Christiane Marchant and her nasty little ways, now found themselves equally troubled by her malevolent absence. No peace for the wicked, the saying goes. Or for the very slightly wicked, for that matter; or even the not-so-much-wicked-as-just-plain-stupid. Whatever the heinousness of their misdeeds, those who had found themselves involved, to their cost, with the woman when she was alive, now found themselves unable to be rid of her lingering animus.
Pauline Winslow, secure in the certainty of her faith and the support of her church, sat in her office looking at her Bible. There was no further cause for concern, she told herself firmly. That woman was gone, tidied away with as little fuss as possible given the circumstances, and the police were only too willing to be accommodating. That was the advantage of working with the ‘old folks’, especially at this time of year; nobody wanted to spoil Christmas for them. Even the press were no longer breathing down her neck, eager for gory details. They had been distracted by a heady cocktail of motorway madness, a parliamentary scandal that threatened to be deliciously deplorable, and an alleged monster spotted in the Peak District which might, just possibly, be an escaped puma, or, more likely, might turn out to be just a wild boar. The papers were too engrossed in pursuing these snippets of news to spare time for a nasty but admittedly comic-sounding accident.
Matron turned a page and tried to read, to gain peace and refreshment from the beauty of the King James bible (no modern rubbish for Pauline Winslow) but the small print jiggled hectically in front of her eyes and the well of quietness she sought failed to materialize.
‘Damn that woman,’ she swore aloud. ‘God damn her,’ and she was horrified as much by the vehemence that rang in her voice, as by the unaccustomed blasphemy.
Ellen Ransom huddled in her room, escaping from the slightly over-excited festive cheer that some of the residents were trying to whip up. She had ignored a cry of, ‘Life goes on, dear,’ from one woman and retreated to the safety of an armchair by her window to brood. What should she do? What could she do? The memories crowded in on her, making their presence felt more strongly even though they had been buried for more than sixty years. Buried until Christiane Marchant had greeted her with that knowing smile and she, Ellen, had felt the years melt away till she was young, and ill, and frightened, and it was 1945 once more.
1945. Douglas was still in the Far East after three years, a reluctant hero, caught up in something he’d wanted no part of, shipped over to the East and wounded during the Burma campaign. He had been sent back to his unit afterwards, where he kept his head down, made no complaint, and got on with the grim business of survival.
Survival. That had also been uppermost in Ellen’s mind at that time. She had survived the war, certainly, but that had been the least of her worries that spring and early summer of 1945. In those days she had been working in the munitions factory at Holton Heath on the south coast of Dorset, between the busy working port of Poole and the walled Saxon market town of Wareham. She had lodged with her elder sister who, with three small children and a husband in the navy, had been glad both of Ellen’s company and her contribution to household finances. Production was winding down a bit at work with the imminent cessation of hostilities in Europe, and Ellen had been out and about enjoying herself. Well, I was entitled to, wasn’t I? Even now she felt aggrieved, as though someone had just scolded her.
There was even a bomb; dropped right into the munitions factory, it had been. She clapped her hand to her mouth as she recalled the terror that had transfixed them all when they realized they were sitting ducks. And the silence. She had never forgotten that moment of silence as they realized the bomb had not exploded. Then one or two women fell down in faints, several screamed or sobbed, a couple had soiled themselves, but she, Ellen, had pulled herself together and poked her nose in. ‘Rags, it was,’ she had told her daughter years later. ‘Them slave labourers in the camps had packed it with rags so it wouldn’t detonate. It was the bravest thing I ever heard.’
It had been at a friend’s house, or rather a friend of a friend, that she met the vivacious young French woman who dazzled them all with the exotic story of her escape, in a fishing boat, from occupied western Brittany, and of her tribulations as a refugee before she had ended up working in a small private hotel in Bournemouth. She and Ellen had struck up an unlikely friendship, the one so small and typically French; not at all pretty but unforgettably vivid. And the other, a big, fair, chocolate-box pretty English girl, a trifle slow and missing her husband. Even at the time of that fateful meeting there had been a worm of panic gnawing at Ellen’s heart as she resolutely ignored a problem that was shortly set to become both self-evident and a complete disaster.
Ellen ground her teeth in an agony of pity for the foolish girl she had been, and of rage at her so-called friend. What had happened that long ago summer had soured her for the rest of her life and now, when old anxieties should have been long at rest, back she had come into Ellen’s life, that small, vivacious Breton woman with her only too excellent memory.
I’ll have to confess, she thought suddenly. The idea manifested itself entirely unexpectedly, but the more she tried to dismiss it as both foolish and dangerous, the more attractive it became as an option. The only option, for her peace of mind.
Yes. She felt a sudden surge of hope, uplifting her. I’ll have to confess it, what I did. But how? Who would listen?
Downstairs in the drawing room Tim Armstrong’s son was trying to broach the subject that occupied his mind to the exclusion of any other. He fidgeted uneasily as he watched his father fiddle with the button on the cuff of his tweed sports jacket. How would Tim take the news? Would he understand what was going on anyway?
‘You might as well get it off your chest, son.’ Tim was sitting up, looking suddenly alert. ‘What’s bothering you?’
Tony stared at him, aware of a sudden sharp pang of memory as his father fixed him with a keen, intelligent eye, just as he had always done. ‘Is it Pam? Doesn’t she want me back after this visit? I can understand that, you know. It’s hard for her with her job and the children to manage, and now me to cope with too. If I could stay on top of things I could … I could give her a hand now and then but I can’t guarantee that things won’t get scrambled any time.’
His son’s eyes filled with hot, unbidden tears as his father put out an awkward but kindly hand and patted his shoulder. ‘It’s not that, Dad,’ he mumbled, pulling out his handkerchief and loudly blowing his nose. ‘It isn’t that, Pam loves you, she knows you can’t help it. No—’ He stared round the room seeking inspiration, relieved and appalled at the same time that the moment had come. No help for it, better just to spit it out.
‘It’s something different, Dad. I’ve been offered promotion and a hefty pay rise but it means moving. The company’
s relocating to Cheshire, been in the pipeline for quite a while, but we only got the official say-so yesterday.’
He cast an anxious glance at his father but Tim’s face was hard to read. ‘I spoke to your doctor about it, Dad,’ he ventured diffidently. ‘He wasn’t very keen on the idea, said it could do more harm than good if you had to uproot. He said … he said you’d be better off staying down here, where everything’s familiar.’
To his surprise his father greeted this stammered verdict with a genuine smile. ‘Of course I would, son,’ he agreed heartily. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’ll be all right, something will turn up.’
The smiling hazel eyes that were so unusually alert suddenly underwent one of those disconcerting shifts of focus, and Tim Armstrong was gone. With a very different smile on his face, he looked inward. ‘In any case, I couldn’t go away from your mother,’ he said reproachfully. ‘She’s here, waiting for me. I couldn’t leave her alone.’
For a moment Tony Armstrong fought a bitter urge to wail aloud, to burst into sour and bitter tears. Oh God, he thought, surreptitiously wiping his eyes. That Dad of all people should have come to this. Dead for twenty years or so, Tony’s mother was no longer a factor in his own life. Oh, he had loved her, he had loved her dearly, and it had been dreadful when she died so suddenly like that, but his dad had been the one who had held him together. Well, we held each other together; his mouth twisted in a smile as he remembered their awkward, English attempts to make a semblance of a life, to make things bearable somehow.
He was pierced by a sudden memory. Three weeks ago Pam had rung him at the office in a panic. ‘It’s your Dad,’ she had cried. ‘I can’t find him anywhere. I thought he was asleep but he’s disappeared, he’s not in the house.’
Loath to call the police yet, Tony had driven around while Pam waited anxiously at home. He tried to picture his father’s movements; his old home perhaps? Then inspiration struck and he took an illegal right turn at the T-junction so that he could head back towards their local cemetery. Mum, he thought; he’ll have gone to find Mum.
As he drove slowly, looking from side to side of the road in case his father was walking there, Tony screwed up his face in an effort to keep the emotions at bay. I love Pam, he thought; well, of course I do. But if it happened to us, if she died, would the grief still be so raw? After all these years? Sometimes it’s as though Dad has only just lost her, he’s so engulfed in sorrow. He swung into the gravelled parking circle and leaped out of the car, scanning the avenues. Yes, Tim was there, just standing by Jane’s grave a couple of hundred yards away. It was pouring with rain and he was bare headed and not wearing a coat.
Now, staring at his father, Tony Armstrong could scarcely believe they were one and the same, the quiet old man in this peaceful room, smiling his inward smile, and the distraught figure he had caught up with a few weeks previously. In his head he could still hear the sound that had rung round the gravestones; the difficult, anguished sobs of a man who had never been known to shed a tear.
I never once saw my father cry, Tony bit his lip. Not until that day.
Driving out of the White Lodge gates Vic and Doreen Buchan slowed down when Harriet’s neighbour hurried up to them, dragging her old retriever.
‘Sorry to stop you,’ she panted. ‘I was just wondering if you’d be popping over to Firstone Grange tonight?’
‘Yes, we will be.’ Doreen looked doubtfully at the dog. ‘Did you want a lift?’
‘Oh no thank you, it’s not that. I just wondered if you’d let Harriet know that I’ll make sure her cottage is aired for Monday, with the heating turned on, Sam told me that’s when she’ll be home. And I’ll make sure there’s bread and milk in, and put a casserole in the oven so she doesn’t have to bother about cooking.’
With a wave she was off, towed homewards by the dog, leaving Doreen to lean back in her seat as Vic headed the Mercedes towards Chambers Forge. I could tell Miss Quigley all about it, she thought suddenly.
The idea was so shocking that a gasp of surprise escaped her, causing Vic to grunt and half turn his head. ‘Nothing,’ she murmured dismissively but the thought persisted, comforting her. Yes, I could tell Miss Quigley.
Gemma Sankey was feeling comforted too, relaxed and safe at home, letting Mum’s scolding flow over her, aware that her mother was actually pleased to see her. With one last caution against Ryan, Mrs Sankey disappeared upstairs for the Saturday night bath that was part of her ritual as she looked forward to watching Casualty in her dressing gown.
The front door bell rang. Gemma sighed, put down the magazine she’d been reading, and pottered out to the hall. The chill blast of air made her recoil so that for a moment she failed to recognize the two figures on the threshold, huddling under the small tiled porch.
‘Hullo, Gem.’ Ryan was slightly at a loss, an unusual situation for him when it came to girls. He’d tried ringing and texting Gemma’s mobile but she had turned it off, and a couple of tentative calls to Firstone Grange had only produced a snotty voice that told him Gemma was not allowed to take personal calls while she was at work. ‘You coming out, then?’
Her resolution wavered for a moment as she registered his ingratiating smile. She had loved him for so long, been his adoring slave, proud to be seen with him, then she caught sight of Kieran in the background. There was a small frown creasing Kieran’s kind moon-face as he regarded Ryan’s back and as she looked at him she saw him give a tiny shake of his head. Kieran, who was kind to his granny, was warning her about Ryan – who was not kind to anyone.
‘No,’ she said calmly, preparing to close the front door. ‘I’m staying in tonight, Ryan, and I won’t be going out with you again. You’d better go now, before my mum catches you.’
‘What?’ She was almost amused at his astonishment at this unexpected rejection, and she pressed it home. ‘I mean it, Ryan, I’m dumping you. I don’t like the way you act; my mum was right about you.’
She swiftly shut the door before he could pull himself together but not before she spotted Kieran’s broad beam of approval, hastily wiped off his face when Ryan turned round in a fury and kicked off down the path towards the pub.
Gemma leaned against the door, her breathing steadying, her pounding heart slowing its beat. I did it, she triumphed. I really did it. I dumped him. Somewhere deep inside she felt a tiny warm glow, the spark lit when she had spoken earlier to Miss Quigley. Kieran had been pleased with her, glad she’d done it. Kieran liked her, she knew, and maybe now he might say something to her, ask her out or something. I’d like that, she realized, with a hopeful lift of her spirits.
At eight o’clock that night Neil yawned and looked at the remains of the take-away he had picked up earlier. ‘Let’s call it a day, Alice,’ he suggested. ‘We’ve been sorting out this house all day, d’you fancy a quick drink? I could do with a breath of air and it’s stopped drizzling now.’ He swept the foil containers into the kitchen bin and looked at her. ‘What do you think? Are you game for a gentle stagger up to the pub?’
As she shrugged herself into the coat he held out for her, she turned to him with anxious eyes. ‘You don’t think people will think I’m awful, do you?’ she wondered. ‘I mean, going out for a drink when my mother’s only just.…’
Her voice, which had started to tail off as she fretted, was suddenly stifled completely as he took her in his arms and kissed her soundly. ‘Don’t be daft,’ was all he said but she was comforted.
The brisk walk did her good, blowing the cobwebs away, and when they reached the brow of the hill and the beginnings of the village, she felt almost human again. To reach the White Boar they had to walk past Firstone Grange and as they did so they spotted Sam Hathaway just parking his Volvo estate. He waved at them but made no attempt to join them until Alice, who had grown fond of the rangy clergyman, called out to him.
‘Sam! Sam?’ When he came up to them, greeting them with beaming pleasure, Alice held out her hand on a friendly impulse. ‘We’re going to the
pub for a drink,’ she explained. ‘Why don’t you spring Harriet again, if you think she’d like it, and come and join us for a drink?’
She glanced quickly at Neil for confirmation and was glad to see him smile and nod. Sam, too, looked delighted and agreed to pick up Harriet and meet them shortly in the White Boar.
Harriet smiled when she saw the pair of them tucked in beside the inglenook, already presenting a united front to the world, a couple, a twosome. There was a flurry of greeting, including a warm kiss from Harriet on Alice’s cheek which clearly surprised but touched the younger woman, followed by desultory chit-chat while the men made a business out of ordering a round of drinks, arguing over payment and eventually settling at a larger table in the corner.
While the others talked Harriet fell silent, gazing steadfastly at her hands.
‘Harriet?’ asked Alice, who looked surprised at Harriet’s air of distraction.
‘What? Oh, I’m sorry, my dear.’ Harriet stopped studying her hands and looked gravely at Alice. ‘I’m really sorry but I have to ask you about this, I think it might be important. Why was it that your mother was so – so difficult? So much disliked by so many people?’
Neil made a movement of protest which was brushed aside by Alice with an impatient gesture. Sam sat waiting, pint in hand, his eyes flicking from Alice to Harriet and back again, watching and waiting.
‘It’s hard to say,’ Alice began slowly, almost speaking to herself as she looked down the years. ‘I suppose it all goes back to her youth in Brittany. I don’t know what happened; she would never speak of it, but Daddy told me the bare bones, to make sure I didn’t put my foot in it.’
She took a reflective sip at her gin and tonic. ‘It’s really odd, you know. I’d completely forgotten until now what it was that Daddy told me; I wasn’t very old at the time and he didn’t dwell on it. He was just concerned that Mother mustn’t be reminded.’ Her eyes darkened at the memory. ‘She always made him pay, you see, if anything upset her, and that was her weapon, reminding him of her terrible ordeal. They were in Occupied France, you know, and it was very hard. The Bretons have a reputation as fierce fighters; they were strongly royalist during and after the French revolution and there’s a tradition of fighting hard and dying hard. I don’t know, I told you, I’ve never known exactly what it was that happened; what it was that was so terrible but I know, because my father told me, that there was some dreadful, unimaginable tragedy. It was the Germans, of course, in retaliation for some Resistance exploit.’
